The Morrigan
by adriata
Summary: Hermione Granger is a little more ruthless, a little more bloodthirsty, and knows a lot less about the wizarding world and her place in it than she could ever guess. Halfblood!Hermione, Grey/dark!Hermione
1. Chapter 1

**I am combining some earlier chapters so the story isn't so choppy. Chapters are unchanged, excluding some connective tissue between some scenes. Thanks for reading :)**

It was a perfectly normal day, in a perfectly normal English home, with perfectly normal people going about their perfectly normal tasks, until suddenly it wasn't.

Minerva McGonagall knocked primly on the door, sharp raps that demanded an answer. Spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, framing her kind yet serious brown eyes.

The door was opened, revealing a genially smiling woman with bouncing curls and laughing blue eyes. "May I help you?" she asked, confused yet polite.

"Yes, Mrs. Granger, you may. I am here to see your family, particularly your daughter, Hermione."

The smile on Mrs. Granger's face slipped a little, worry beginning to show as the strange woman on her front porch spoke her daughter's name. "Are you from the school? Did she do something else?"

"Yes, I am from the school, but not the one she is currently enrolled in. And she has done nothing but be born."

Mrs. Granger's hand fluttered to her breast.

"I think I may need to come in to fully explain, Mrs. Granger."

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Hermione sat demurely, her hands clasped in her lap, and inquisitively inspected her acceptance letter. McGonagall had watched the girl closely since they had been introduced. Hermione had the same bouncing curls as her mother, but they were in a raw, untamed frenzy. Instead of happy blue eyes, careful amber eyes like gold and coffee had quietly watched McGonagall right back. There was an intentness to her gaze that McGonagall saw rarely among her young students, but one she could swear she had seen before. Something about the girl piqued the old witch's senses, but she couldn't decide what it was.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were asking many pointed questions about Hogwarts, magical society, and magic itself. Hermione occasionally broke in to ask a rather well-spoken query, but mostly she remained silent, content to listen to the answers McGonagall gave her parents.

"I will escort Hermione to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning. One of you may accompany her, but I ask that it only be one of you. Muggle parents tend to get very distracted on their first view of magical life, and one parent is easier to keep track of than two." What McGonagall did not say was that in general, one _muggle_ was much easier to keep an eye than two, and easier to keep away from the inevitable sneers of purebloods. Hermione's mother put a hand on her husband's knee, and offered to go herself. Hermione's father looked relieved. His hazel eyes were pinched in stress, blonde hair mussed from the hands he had run through it. McGonagall noticed that Mrs. Granger seemed rather calm, accepting the influx of information gracefully. McGonagall was pleased the calmer parent would be accompanying the new student; stressed muggles were much more likely to garner unfriendly attention.

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione formally questioned, "muggleborns appear at random, yes?"

"That is correct."

"Is it possible for muggleborns to actually have some blood lines that trace back to wizarding families? Are normal children ever born to witches that intermingle with the muggle population? Assuming the genes for wizarding traits are passed down to all of their children, even if the traits are dormant, it is possible for the genes to activate several generations after an intermarriage, resulting in an apparent muggleborn."

McGonagall blinked at the child. "It sounds supportable," she said slowly, "but I know of no study that proves it. Science and magic typically do not mix well."

Hermione frowned slightly, a small crinkling between her brows. "I see," she said, nodding her head.

 _Perhaps this one is for Ravenclaw, then_ , McGonagall thought.

McGonagall stood, bidding the new students and her parents farewell until the next day, as the questions tapered off. "I imagine you have a lot to discuss," she said, looking between the family members. "It is certainly a surprise to discover things that you have always believed to be false are, in fact, true. If you have any further questions, please make note of them, so we may discuss them tomorrow. Until the morning," she said, leaving the Granger's to themselves as she was shown out the door. The moment it clicked shut with grim finality, Hermione's parents both looked at her.

Mr. Granger sank into his chair, trembling slightly. "Hermione, go upstairs, please. Your mother and I have a lot of things to talk about."

Hermione frowned at her father. "I must leave the room for you to discuss my future?"

"Please, love," her mother pleaded quietly.

Frown still in place, Hermione went upstairs. But only because her mother had asked.

Daniel Granger looked at his wife. Emily Granger stared back at him, cautious. "I had hoped you were wrong."

"Me too," she said, sitting down next to him. "It certainly would have made her life easier."

He remained silent, contemplating the immense change. "This will make her into a monster," he said.

"Don't say things like that!" Emily Granger snapped. "I don't know why you are so convinced our daughter is evil or psychotic. She's just extremely intelligent and mature, perhaps a bit too serious, especially for her age."

Daniel Granger snorted rudely. "She's high-functioning, but that doesn't give her morals, Emily. She has so far spent her school years without friends, and we both know it's because she doesn't even care to make them in the first place. She's cold, Emily, like a snake."

Emily Granger furrowed her brows into a deep scowl. "She has _morals_ for God's sake, Daniel! She's only an eleven-year-old girl. And you know she has her moments, she's not cold all the time! You've seen her when she flies into a rage or— "

"That's exactly the problem. Her tantrums- and don't argue, you know they are temper tantrums- always end in some sort of violence!"

Emily pleaded, "She just can't control her temper yet, it doesn't mean— "

"She takes things too far!"

Emily Granger couldn't disagree, even as her face flushed in anger. Her daughter had been in trouble many times in school, sometimes resulting in expulsion, despite her obvious brilliance. Hermione was serious and studious for a young girl, and did not allow other students to bully her. What worried the Grangers was how Hermione chose to handle her fellow students when they treated her poorly. So far, no conferences with faculty or fellow students had resulted in an improvement with her chosen means of defense, or, as it usually was, revenge.

"She doesn't have the best control right now over her temper, but she has morals, Daniel," Emily sighed. "I'm scared too, okay? Magic seems so limitless. But Hermione is a good girl."

Daniel ran a hand through his hair. Grey was sprouting at the temples, which he insisted was only platinum blond. "I know, I know. I'm just scared of what she is capable of."

"I am too," Emily Granger whispered, looking down at her hands.

They sat quietly. "I suppose this shows just how much of him she has," Daniel murmured. "A witch. Bloody hell."

"Language," Emily said weakly, not really meaning it. There were no dirty words in her home; she was careful to ensure her family spoke properly. But if any time called for a curse, this was it. "We always knew there was a good possibility. And we've seen the accidental bursts of magic so many times now-"

"I had hoped they were all flukes, but I shouldn't have fooled myself," Daniel muttered darkly. "Stupid of me, to wish for the impossible."

"She's still our little Hermione," Emily whispered. "Our little girl."

"As much as she can be ours," Daniel said, before standing and leaving the living room, Emily watching him sadly.

From her spot on the stairs, Hermione stood and quietly went into her room. She knew how her father felt about her, scared and proud of her abilities all at once. She could admit that she was certainly different from the other eleven year olds she knew, not including the magic.

Books had always been her source for entertainment. Not dolls or dresses, but literature, words on paper that explained the things she wanted to know. She was worlds above her classmates; she had already skipped a year. It made people nervous. She was an abnormally precocious child that sometimes did unexplainable things.

Sitting on her bed, Hermione drew the letter from her pocket. The gold embellishment gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight filtering in a window, gilding the graceful curves of black wax. _Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_.

Strange things had always happened around Hermione. Computers never worked correctly, the insides melting as soon as her fingers touched the keyboard. Nothing could tame her wild hair, be it heat or scissors. And occasionally, things just _happened_ to people who made her angry. Her thoughts had manifested themselves in dangerous or amusing ways.

It all made sense now. The questions she couldn't answer in her books, the things she had disregarded as fanciful, all came together in an acceptance letter.

Hermione had good control over her emotions, but excitement and anxiety crept onto her face. An entire world was at her fingertips to explore, filled with new knowledge and opportunities. But how would it actually be? It was totally unknown, and that made Hermione nervous. But she was much more excited than she was anything else.

McGonagall had been undoubtedly impressive, wielding her wand with confidence and grace. Hermione's fingers closed around an imaginary wand, imaging the smooth wood against her skin, the rushing power. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

For now, she had some familial research to do. She intended to search old family records for signs of magical relations, in support of her theory.

Quietly, Hermione left her room, feet muffled by the thick socks she wore to sneak around. The hall closet opened with hardly a hush, and she reached in to grab the box that stood at the top of a neat stack of filing cabinets. She had delved into her family records before, two years ago, interested in the history behind her name. But now, she was looking into her family with a scientific angle; surely, there would be some odd notation to indicate a witch or wizard in the line, a strange last name she could cross reference once she had access to a magical library.

Reentering her room, locking the door behind her, Hermione spread the materials from the box over her floor. Sketchy genealogy trees, lists, certificates, and notes gradually took shape as she began to organize them. She looked briskly at her matriarchal lineage first.

Her mother's maiden name had been Miller. No indications there. She thoroughly inspected each document, jotting down possible leads on a legal pad balanced on her knee. It was all disturbingly mundane. The names, years, and certificates all checked out, no oddities detected. Well, her great-great aunt Margery seemed morbidly interested in the occult, but that meant very little when Hermione compared it to the religious beliefs of the time.

Shoving a thick sheaf of curly hair behind her hair, she moved on to her patriarchal lineage. No names stuck out to her as she methodically checked each hastily scrawled tree. Looking at the pictures of her father's family, she was struck by how little she looked like her father-

Hermione paused.

She had never considered that.

Quickly, she pulled her parent's marriage certificate out in front of her. Her parents had been married the 20th of June, 1981.

She had been born the 19th of September, 1979.

It didn't mean anything concrete. It was not abnormal for couples to have a child together prior to marriage. But it certainly explained quite a bit, including those parting words: _as much as she can be our daughter._

Hermione had assumed he figuratively meant that this new life would steal her away from her family. But thinking back, she thought she could remember a slight emphasis on the word "our."

Was her father not her true father?

All but in biology perhaps. Her mother was most assuredly the woman who had carried her to term; Hermione had seen pictures of a glowing Emily Granger (Miller?) with a hand resting on her rounded middle. But now, Hermione couldn't recall a single picture with her father before the age of two. Surely she would remember any such pictures now that she was actively thinking about them? But she couldn't.

Quickly, Hermione repacked all of the dusty documents and hid them away under her bed. The more she thought, the more she believed Daniel Granger was not her father, which made her wonder if her true father was actually a wizard.

She decided not to ask her mother. Her mother was currently in a delicate state after the professor's visit, and questions like the ones brimming in Hermione would only worsen the home's overall mood.

How had she never realized it before? It felt so obvious now that Hermione was actually wondering. Her mother was thirty years old, young for a mother of an eleven-year-old. Her father was ten years her senior, already an established professional by the time her parents had married. None of the dates fit together correctly. Was it possible she had intentionally overlooked the obvious signs, content with the easy way out?

No. Hermione would always choose truth over ease. For some reason, she had just never considered the indications lingering in her home and her features. Once she had seriously noticed it, it was like a curtain had been drawn from over her eyes, and all the signs became clear.

Slipping from her spot on the floor, she padded over to her vanity mirror. Hermione was not prone to narcissism, but her mother had found the little dresser enchanting, a pale ash wood of graceful lines and a shining, angled mirror. Carefully, she inspected her face, comparing it to the photo of her and her parents that was wedged in the mirror's frame.

She had the same riotous curls as her mother, although her own were more prone to be a chaotic mess. Emily Granger's eyes were blue, milky cornflowers set beneath arched brows. Daniel Granger's eyes were hazel, sunlight dappled forest beneath wispy blond brows. Hermione looked into her own face, tiger-eye stones of streaking amber and brown, set beneath serious, thick brows. Her matriarchal grandmother had had the same eyes, so different from the pale blue of her daughter. Hermione had seen photos of her grandmother, amber eyes framed by thin glasses, irrefutable proof of blood ties.

The bones of her face were distinctly different from both of her parents. She looked more delicate in comparison, with a slim, defined jaw and lifted cheekbones. The childish pudginess of her face had yet to fade, so she would need to compare again in several years so mark any differences. Perhaps she would begin to look more like her mother's angular beauty, or less likely, would gain her father's broad structure.

Bodily, her mother was curvaceous, and her father built like a rugby player. Her body was unformed, having not yet touched puberty, but she already could see marked differences. She was much willowier than her petite mother, built with longer legs and less heft. She and her father had nothing in common.

Hermione swiped a thumb over her father's face, wondering. It would not change her affection for him if he wasn't her biological father. It would certainly explain his reticence toward her. But she knew he loved her as much as he could, even if she was not his own.

Yet, she would not be displeased to learn of her biological father, despite her affection for Daniel Granger. Immense curiosity pricked at her brain, imagining from her dissimilar characteristics what such a man could look like, be like. Did he pursue knowledge as she did? Was he magical like she was? She had many questions and no way to find answers.

Perhaps the magical world had something like a directory. Certainly, Hogwarts had a yearbook of some sort. McGonagall had told her family that the British magical world was very small, with only perhaps fifty students per year in the entire school. It would not be too difficult to research magical families and compile a list of men who looked tangentially similar to her. However, if her biological father was a muggleborn, it would be markedly more difficult to find out about his family, as she doubted anyone would keep records on muggle families.

Satisfied with her planning, Hermione noted on her growing list of questions to ask McGonagall about record keeping in the magical world. It would likely be a lengthy project to discover the truth of her heritage, but Hermione had never been frightened from an intellectual pursuit before.

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McGonagall retrieved Hermione and her mother at precisely 9:00 am the next morning. Cheery Saturday light highlighted the trio as they made their way through London to a particular seedy establishment. Emily Granger looked nervous to be in such a gloomy place, clutching her small bag to her side, as McGonagall strode into the pub. Hermione confidently followed her future professor, bolstered by McGonagall's courage.

Patrons watched them curiously, eyeing her mother's anxious face and clenched hands. "Muggles," she heard one whisper to another, gesturing at her mother. "Odd creatures, those."

Hermione frowned at the slight on her mother, but McGonagall was waiting at a brick wall. With a snappy glare, she turned her attention away from the grubby patrons and watched avidly as the witch tapped her wand to particular grimy bricks. Once she completed the sequence, Hermione watched in amazement as the bricks began to shift, cobbling themselves into an archway. Through the doorway lay an entire new world.

That very liminal moment, the revelation of Diagon Alley to a muggleborn witch, made magic oh so _real_. This was no longer an elaborate prank, an insane scheme: this was Hermione's future. The boundary had thinned between her muggle life and her magical life, and one footstep would break the taught skein that held her back from her potential.

With a deep breath, Hermione stepped onto the cobblestoned street. Her world shuddered and then resettled into a new configuration, unfamiliar to her. She grinned.

"Firstly, your muggle money must be exchanged for legal wizarding tender," McGonagall said, gesturing to a large, vaulting structure. "I must warn you: the bank tellers are rude and unfriendly, especially to muggles, or unknown witches and wizards."

Hermione privately thought that a bank teller could not be worse than vicious children.

There errand within the bank was quickly handled. Exchanging muggle currency for the odd magical one was not often done, but it was common enough that Gringotts had a special desk devoted to expediting the process. As soon as the two witches were done, they left the bank and set about on their next mission.

"Is that a book store?" Hermione asked. She could see books stacked behind the shop windows, and her soul lurched in that direction.

"Yes, that is Flourish and Blott's, the next stop after robe fittings," McGonagall answered.

Hermione wished to see the books as soon as possible, but it would not do to annoy a future professor. Quietly, she followed the witch into Madam Maulkin's, accompanied by her stunned mother. While her mother had certainly taken the news better than her father, she was still overloaded by the influx of new information. Since Mrs. Granger had seen the goblins in Gringotts, she had been operating on lesser brain functions. Hermione might have been in a more similar state had she been any less excited.

Madam Maulkin gestured hurriedly for Hermione to step upon a low platform before bringing out colored bolts of fabric. "What do you need? School robes?"

Mrs. Granger looked anxiously to McGonagall, who quickly offered her thoughts. "I would advise buying at least four sets of school robes, a set of traditional dress robes, and one cloak. Winters at Hogwarts are very cold."

Madam Maulkin began to measure Hermione, sparing no time to avoid pinning her with needles. Hermione found the entire process tedious, but she remained patient. _Books_ were coming next.

"You're likely to be a tall one," she murmured, sticking a pin in her mouth as she draped fabric over the young girl. "I rarely see girls so tall as you at such a young age."

"Her father has some height to him," Mrs. Granger said.

Daniel Granger was certainly not short like his wife, but he was by far not tall. Hermione crinkled her brows in thought. Could her mother be slipping up due to the stress of the day? Was Emily Granger thinking of Hermione's biological father?

Madam Maulkin finished the measuring (and infernal pinning) and assured the Grangers the robes would be delivered within the next three days. Mrs. Granger remarked it was rather fast for handmade robes to be completed and Madame Maulkin balked, correcting that she used magic, not muggle ways! McGonagall quickly gestured for the family to follow her from the store before Hermione acted on the venomous glare directed at the shopkeeper, and then lead them across the way to a small shop with books filling every window. Hermione could barely contain herself at the sight, her ire fading as her fingers tingled at the feel of imaginary pages.

"Now, Hermione, we can't buy out the entire store," her mother said, sensing her daughter's excitement. "You may choose five books that are not a part of the curriculum, but that's all. _Only five_ , Hermione," she warned deaf ears.

Hermione Granger had already disappeared into the stacks.

After immediately locating her school books, Hermione let her fingers run across the varied spines, carefully inspecting each embossed title for the most interesting topics. Unfortunately, to a precocious muggleborn on her first trip to a magical bookstore, every title held a magnetic allure.

Snapping herself from a daze, Hermione decided to consider her options logically. Firstly, she needed to be able to defend herself. Secondly, she needed a book on wizarding culture and society, and a directory of families, if one existed. That left her room for at least one book to enjoy for herself.

Quickly, but with much thorough thought, she found two books on spells for defence. _Humboldt's Tome of Most Conniving Hexes_ and _A Starter's Guide to Tricks, Charms, and Galore_ hit the front counter, awaiting purchase.

"Professor McGonagall," she queried, "does there exist a book on prominent wizarding families and culture? Or perhaps a catalogue on current wizarding families?"

McGonagall started, surprised by the question. Yes, this one was definitely a Ravenclaw, for she could imagine no reason other than curiosity a young muggleborn student would express interest in wizarding families. "There is one book that comes to mind, a magically-updating collection of prominent wizarding families. You may need to ask Mr. Botts for a copy, as usually they are given to families upon the birth of an heir, not for usual sale."

"What about magical culture?"

"I do not know if there are any books on that," the older witch responded, "but it would not hurt to look."

Hermione frowned. It was a severe oversight of magical culture to withhold itself from literature when muggleborns would enter society completely blind. She would rather have some knowledge on the societal niceties of wizards and witches before entering Hogwarts, but it was looking as if she would have to rely on an on-the-go education. She wasn't incapable of learning the ins and outs of a new culture, but she wished she at least had a reference book.

"Don't waste your book opportunities on reference books, dear," Mrs. Granger said. "Get some that you will enjoy."

Hermione blinked at her. "I enjoy all books, mum. But I'll keep that in mind."

Mrs. Granger sighed as Hermione disappeared back into the stacks. Sometimes she worried about her daughter's fervent studying; maybe it stunted her social skills, which would explain her troubles in normal schools. At least it would do her some good, since she was entering a new world with absolutely no base of knowledge. She was building from the ground up, and any extra bit of information would help.

Hermione methodically inspected the overstuffed shelves, the old vanilla of parchment rising from the pages of many, many volumes. She would find her book to enjoy first, and then ask Mr. Botts about a reference book for magical families. Humming to herself in pleasure, she plucked a book on famous magical figures and skimmed the first chapter. She treated many books thusly, searching for one she would enjoy many times over.

After quite a bit of happy browsing, she finally located one book for pleasure, and the best she could find on wizarding society. _The Best Spell Theories of Morgan La Fey_ and _Varied Customs in the Magical World_. Her fingers already itched to learn about Morgan La Fey, a witch so famous she had bled into muggle society, but she would force herself to crack open the alluring, but slightly less interesting wizarding customs book first. She wouldn't be able to hold herself back for long, though.

"I'm ready, mum," she said, emerging from the depths of the store. McGonagall and her mother had been in quiet conversation.

"Do you want to ask the store owner about that book, dear?" her mother asked.

"Surely a pureblood in her class will have one she can borrow," McGonagall said, standing as Mrs. Granger purchased the four books. "There is no need to order a special copy, which would be undoubtedly expensive and time consuming."

"That sounds perfectly reasonable. Right, love?"

Hermione suspected they had discussed this between themselves as soon as she was out of hearing. "I suppose," she said agreeably. She was slightly annoyed at being outmaneuvered, but McGonagall was correct. However, Hermione was less positive about getting along with other students well enough to request a lend. Her experiences with other children her age had been less than ideal.

They exited Flourish and Blott's, Hermione immensely satisfied despite not locating a registry. Perhaps the Hogwarts library would have one she would use for her studies. It was not a major setback so long as she could find one she could use. And maybe she could even find yearbooks at Hogwarts, in the most ideal situation.

"Now, for your wand."

She snapped to attention, all thoughts of her current project fleeing her mind. _Her wand!_

The wand was what distinguished a witch from a muggle. Through a wand, she could work real magic. A wand was a tool to create the most marvelous feats either world had ever heard of or imagined. A wand was her key to the greatest discovery of her lifetime, her heritage as a witch.

They stepped up to a store front with clear windows and a flourishing sign reading _Ollivander's_. Hermione's insides shuddered in excitement, even more so than when she had seen the bookstore.

Entering the store, Hermione gazed in fascination at the slim boxes lining the shelves, wands waiting to be chosen, wielded. An area concealed behind her breast bone burned in anticipation, ambition and pride flooding her. This was her heritage, her right as a witch! She felt a new surge of excitement to learn.

"Ah, I sense so much potential in you, witch," a rasping voice called, heralding the approach of a genially smiling man with wispy white hair. "Passion, ambition- yes, I think dragon heartstring will be appropriate for this one."

"Mr. Ollivander," McGonagall said, "this is Hermione Granger."

He peered closely at her sharp eyes, seeing behind the childish façade of chubby cheeks and awkward teeth. "I may have just the wand for you," he said, reaching behind his counter. He withdrew a slim red box, lifting a skinny brown wand from a bed of black velvet.

Hermione lightly gripped the wand, the wood feeling awkward in her hand. "Give it a wave," Ollivander said, watching her carefully. She obeyed, dragging the tip through the air. She nearly leapt in excitement when white sparks trailed from the wand tip.

"Hmm," the wandmaker hummed. "A good response, but I feel as though there is a wand in here that will answer you thousands of times as brilliantly."

Ollivander brought out many different wands, and Hermione waved them all obediently. Some trailed colored sparks, and others flew from her hand angrily. He hummed each time, noting the wand's responses each time he plucked a new one. "A moment," he finally said when he expressed displeasure as her twelfth wand impaled itself in the ceiling. He strode into the very back of the store, rustling around boxes out of site from the three women.

"Does this usually happen?" Mrs. Granger asked McGonagall.

"Some times are more difficult than others, but I can say I have never seen so many wands react so violently," the professor said, warily eyeing the wand quivering threateningly in the ceiling.

"Oh," Mrs. Granger said, her cornflower eyes wonderingly nervously over her daughter.

"For an old student of mine named James, one wand caught fire. He didn't have to pay for it, of course, but it fascinated Ollivander for years afterward. It is rumored also that the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, set fire to Ollivander's grandfather with a wand he tried."

Mrs. Granger looked at the wand in the ceiling in terror.

"However," McGonagall said, amusement lurking in her voice, "the most interesting time by far was when a young Mr. Sirius Black had a wand backfire so hard that he couldn't speak for three or so hours, he could only bark like a dog. His mother was mortified."

Mrs. Granger froze in terror, and McGonagall reflected that muggles were not so amused by magical mishaps as a witch would be.

"Sirius Black?" Hermione said, her brow quirking. "Interesting that he barked like a dog, when his name is the constellation of the dog."

"Yes," Mrs. Granger said weakly. "That is interesting."

Hermione looked to her mother in concern, but was distracted by Ollivander's return.

"Do not worry, child," he said triumphantly. "I have found your wand!"

Excited by his tone, Hermione eagerly grabbed the wand he held out to her and swished it through the air. The response was immediate: a brilliant jet of silver flame gilded the front counter, dissipating without leaving a single black scorch.

"Excellent!" Ollivander crowed, the most activity McGonagall had seen from the elderly man in many years. "That is the most effusive response from a wand I have witnessed in decades."

"That was certainly a new one," McGonagall murmured, watching Hermione with a new gaze.

Hermione grinned, smoothing the wood beneath her fingers. This was _her_ wand. _This_ was her wand! A long, dark wood decorated with intricate vine relief.

"Vine, 10 3'4ths inches, dragon heartstring. Yes, vine wood is for those who seek a greater purpose, and have hidden depths to their personalities. Paired with the dragon core, this wand is incredibly powerful. Use it wisely, dear Hermione," Ollivander said gravely. "I do not enjoy giving powerful wands to those who would misuse them."

"I never misuse my things, Mr. Ollivander," Hermione rebutted. "I always know exactly what needs to be done."

"Within reason," her mother was quick to add.

The three women, their business in Diagon Alley concluded, left the magical world. Hermione had become attached to the magical side of London very quickly, so their departure left her eager for the start of school. Her new professor joined the Granger women back at their home to impart some more instructions.

"Classes begin in nine days, Mrs. Granger," McGonagall specified. "Hermione needs to be at Kings Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters, at precisely 8:00 am. The Hogwarts Express will depart at exactly 8:30 am, not a moment sooner or later."

"That platform exists?" Mrs. Granger asked incredulously.

"Yes," the professor answered seriously. "Simply push your buggy through the stone wall of gate nine, and you will find it thusly."

"Magic is able to change the consistency of stone?" Hermione queried. "Or is an illusion?"

"The magic used to create the gate was put in place long ago," said McGonagall, pleased by the astute question. "It is an illusion, but not in the sense that it is an illusion of a brick wall to fool muggles. The illusion not only creates the insubstantial wall, but acts upon the minds of muggles so as to make them look away from the wall, uninterested in it. It is very clever, careful magic."

"Hmm," Hermione hummed, thinking. A spell like that would be incredibly useful to use on things like her rooms or possessions. A spell that not only create the illusion of something else, but tricked people into looking away. Placed on something like a key hole, Hermione could perform the spell to make the key hole look like the doorknob so people could not actually unlock the door, and then also make it so no one noticed the key hole at all if they thought to try something else. Although perhaps she was overcomplicating a basic principle? It was definitely something to consider, later.

McGonagall left, and Hermione turned to go to her room to begin reading and packing her supplies.

"Hermione, sweetheart," her mother said, causing Hermione to turn on the stairs and look questioningly at her mother. "Let's have a quick chat, okay?"

Irritation prickled her at being interrupted from her new studies, but it was soon displaced by curiosity and affection. Hermione deeply loved her mother; she went out of her way to please her, and enjoyed spending time with her. Her father loved her, but her mother adored her. Emily Granger never withheld a word of affection or a hug. Daniel Granger was much more stoic, prone to gruff advice and awkward squeezes. Hermione had always attributed her father's lack of loving affection to his gender and temperament, but her prior wonderings at her parentage had made her consider other reasons.

Perhaps Daniel Granger felt slightly uncomfortable raising the child of another man? He had never expressed any bitterness within Hermione's hearing. He also did all of the average fatherly things: he scared off young boys, encouraged her to speak her mind, grounded her when necessary. But he seemed almost detached from his parenting, as if he was playing a role temporarily, and soon he would act out something else.

She didn't allow her parents' disparity to bother her; she had her mother wholly. She was devoted to her mother absolutely.

"Yes ma'am?" Hermione asked primly, settling on the couch beside her mother.

Mrs. Granger inhaled deeply. Her daughter was frighteningly intelligent and had a will of iron; she had to tread carefully when imparting some less than ideal advice. "I just wanted to discuss your new school with you. At previous schools you have been... less than kind, to the other students or teachers who have angered you. Maybe at this new school, Hogwarts, you can try to be more approachable. I would hate for you to have no friends, dear. I know how smart and capable you are," she expressed tenderly, pulling her daughter into a hug. "Others may not understand that as well. But don't let your peers' misunderstandings keep you from reaching out, or allowing others in. Do you see what I'm trying to say, love?"

Hermione nodded into her mother's shoulder, letting herself sink into the warmth of her body. She hadn't thought until now, but what she would do without her mother? Who would care for her like Emily Granger did?

"I understand, mum," she responded, the words muffled by a sweet-smelling shoulder. "I'll try my best."

A comforting lie was better than a harsh truth. Hermione would treat her peers as she always had: useful and not. Those she would defend and those she would offend.

"Good," her mother said, patting her back. "Now go look at those books like you're aching to do. I'll bring your dinner up later after I talk about our day to your father."

"Yes ma'am," Hermione said, before trundling up the stairs to inspect her new books. She had a lot of reading to do in nine short days.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione voraciously devoured each school book, mind whirling at what she absorbed. She made copious notes in the margins and on her personalized notepad, marking pages and chapters that needed further reflection and study with paperclips. She spent one day only on each classroom book, unwilling to spend too much time on one single subject. While she could learn the theories, terms, and words, magic was a practical exercise as well. She couldn't practice magic with her wand just yet: McGonagall had explained to her and her family the consequences of underage magic use outside of school. Therefore, she read her textbooks and studied what she could. The rest would have to wait until school.

Charms and Transfigurations caught her attention, furnishing theories and ideas in her brain. _First Year Charms_ and _Transfiguration for Beginners_ were heavily annotated, smelling not only of parchment but now also of drying ink. _Potions for First Year Students_ had also proved incredibly interesting to her analytical mind. The theory behind potions seemed a bit obscure, but she appreciated the ritualistic order of creating a potion.

Herbology was average, at best. It was a very thin manual that only outlined fieldwork. It was full of safety rules, precautions, and instructions. She skimmed it lightly to familiarize herself and then moved on to Astronomy.

She was even less interested in astronomy. She already knew quite a bit that the book covered from her normal science classes, and the aspects she was not familiar with seemed to stray a little too closely to astrology for her analytical, rational mind. History of Magic had been fascinating, but the book had been dry to the point of making her yawn. How an author could write a book that made even Merlin's War so absolutely boring, she had no idea. Hopefully, the professor wouldn't completely depend on the textbook to teach class. The author, Philo Binns, was one of the only writers that had ever nearly put her to sleep.

Defense would most assuredly be her most interesting class. The book seemed a little sparse, but what it did contain was absolutely fascinating. Except for certain curses, dark magic did not seem deserving of its title. Dark magic sounded like incredibly powerful spells that could certainly wreak destruction, but she couldn't see how that truly differentiated it from all other magic. Any magic could be used for the purpose of evil. Why was dark magic held superstitiously to be so bad when it was truly just not as well understood?

It was certainly worth further study. Dark magic may be zealously ridiculed, but she wanted to learn the truth of it, without the blinders wizards born directly into their heritage would have likely formed.

Hermione packed her school books into the bottom of her trunk, arranging them as she would when she unpacked. In exchange for getting a pet at a later date, Hermione had chosen a trunk that had clever charms placed on it to make the inside much larger than it seemed. She had been glum to pass up on a magical companion, but the trunk was incredibly convenient. She could bring much more to school from home than she had originally known.

Black school robes- plain but well-made of the finest, softest fabrics- went in after her folded winter cloak and carefully packaged dress robes. Slowly, she filled her trunk, clothes segregated to one side and school supplies to the other. Her clothes were the easiest: school clothing, and some normal jeans and blouses. Her mother had purchased one pair of shoes, made in Diagon Alley to magically grow with her. The black leather of the boot was smooth and gleamed dully, with a narrow heel that clicked commandingly when she walked in them. Normal trainers joined her magical boots. Hermione wasn't sure what she could expect in terms of physical activity at Hogwarts, but she would rather be safe than destroy a pair of shoes.

The Hogwarts school uniform was surprisingly attractive for a British boarding school. She had five grey pleated skirts, five white blouses, three grey sweaters, and six pairs of tall grey knee socks. It was a lot of grey, but the white stripes interspersed at the v of her sweater, and her white tie alleviated the drab color scheme. Hermione liked the serious monochrome color palette. It felt sophisticated.

Task completed, Hermione picked up her book on magical theory by the esteemed witch, Morgan La Fey. School would begin in two days, and she had prepared as well as she could. Now, she could do some reading for her most personal interests.

* * *

"Hold onto me, mum, dad," Hermione said, offering her elbows to either parent. "Maybe being connected to me will make the passage less disorienting, since I am meant to pass through."

The brick wall stretched before her, innocuous. It looked perfectly normal, but when Hermione focused on it intently, she could feel a tiny itching sensation in the base of her skull. Her father rapped his knuckles against the brick, shaking his head when they met solid stone. "I think this is a joke, Emily."

Hermione frowned at him. "Professor McGonagall said the platform was behind this wall."

"Well, maybe there's a magical train to take you to your magical school behind some _other_ magical wall."

" _Daniel_ ," Emily Granger hissed, staring at her husband over Hermione's head.

Hermione was slightly surprised. She had never heard this sort of venom from her father; his recalcitrance to her heritage made her suspicions even more plausible.

"Let me try," Hermione said, eager to diffuse her mother's ire. Stepping forward, the witch poked the wall with one finger. With a cool rush of air, her finger disappeared into the wall. Smug, Hermione stepped back and offered her elbow to her parents once more. Silently, they retook the offering, still trying to twist their minds around their daughter's finger going _through_ a solid brick wall.

With a deep breath, preparing herself for the new life she was burgeoning on, Hermione pushed her cart through the wall.

Noise and commotion exploded around the Grangers. Through the wall, hundreds of children of many ages hurtled at each other, waved wands, and created an immense fuss. Families like theirs bid their children goodbye until Christmas, while the train rumbled with impatience.

The massive red train caught Hermione's eyes, gleaming and golden on the platform rails. Students lugged their trunks through open doors, filling train compartments with chatter. She felt a moment of anxiety when she realized she would have to share a compartment with strangers for the ride to school.

"Wow," her mother breathed, eyes wide at the spectacle.

Daniel Granger was totally gob-smacked. He hadn't expected witches and wizards to look so... normal, he supposed.

"Well, I suppose this is goodbye for now," Mrs. Granger said, extending her arms. Hermione entered her embrace, inhaling her mother's fresh flower scent for the last time until Christmas.

"I love you, mum," she whispered, squeezing. "Be safe."

Mrs. Granger kissed the crown of her daughter's head and smoothed a hand down her bushy curls. "I love you too, sweetheart. _You_ be safe! And make sure to enjoy yourself and make some good friends."

Hermione stepped back and her father clapped a hand on her shoulder and hugged her briefly. "I know we don't have to tell you to keep up with your studies," he murmured. "But make sure that you kick everyone's bum here just like back home, okay?"

"Daniel," Mrs. Granger mock reproached. "Phrase that a little nicer."

He rolled his eyes comically. "Okay dearest. Hermione, make sure you stay on top of the year. Better?" he asked his wife.

"Much," she smiled.

With another flurry of goodbyes, and tears from her mother, Hermione trundled onto the train to find her own compartment. Eventually, she found one that was blessedly empty. After stowing her trunk, she settled on a comfortable bench and cracked open her book. Conversation filtered in to her closed compartment, rushing feet thundering by. Years one through seven were all crowded on a single train. Yet, it was apparent to Hermione that the magical population of Britain was small. McGonagall had told her that her year would only have between fifty and eighty children for all of Britain. The magical population hardly seemed sustainable to her fledgling genetic study.

Plausibly, the British magical population was sustained by a healthy migration of witches and wizards from overseas. It made sense to Hermione that magical societies all over the world would keep contact; the next logical step was that witches and wizards traveled between countries. Invariably, these people would intermingle with the natural population, and then introduce new blood into the gene pool, thus maintaining a fit species (she had a notated copy of _The Origin of Species_ in her trunk that she intended to apply to wizarding genetics to satisfy her curiosity).

Muggleborns then would be an absolute necessity to the survival of wizards as a whole. Muggleborns had the required traits that produced whatever it was that made wizards and witches magical, but also presented a totally untouched vista of genetic possibility. With such a small population, magical society needed what Muggleborns alone could provide, or the gene pool would become quite shallow.

Hermione imagined what a witch inundated with incest would be like. Perhaps her magic would stutter out? How would a genetic cesspool produced by incest reflect in purely magical traits?

Unfortunately, she had no way to conduct experiments on genetics. She could hypothesize, and perhaps observe students that had known incest in their families. _The Origin of Species_ method of cataloguing and observation would have to suffice.

She returned her attention to her book. So far, Morgan la Fey was absolutely captivating. The book itself had been written rather well by a wizard named Catullus Herrings, who had compiled Morgan la Fey's research into a compendium. The magical theories were a little beyond her, since she hadn't even had a basic magical theory class and knew nothing other than what she had read, but she was still eager to read more. Morgan had done intensive research on the esoteric subject of magic itself, hypothesizing that all of magic had a single common source, or was made of a single common element. Hermione could see how magic and muggle science would intersect at the crossroads of magic being an undiscovered, spiritual element that belonged on the Periodic Table.

A brief clatter of the compartment door opening caused her to look up from her thoughts. Two boys shouldered their way in, narrow frames clothed in rich fabrics. Their trunks floated on their own, beckoned by crooked fingers to stow themselves away. The boys looked at Hermione like she was a minor inconvenience, a bug on the ground, or a speck of dirt on their lapels.

"Can you find some other place to read?" one demanded rudely, flouncing onto the bench. The other boy sat quietly next to him, eyes intent upon Hermione.

"I was here first," she replied, "and I wouldn't do anything anyone said with a tone quite like that." She felt a brief flicker of apology for disobeying her mother so quickly. She had said she would attempt to make friends, but this boy had been rude first. Hermione did not allow anyone, much less pale little boys, talk that way to her.

The sneering boy looked her up and down, purposely exaggerating the movement of his head as he took in her clearly muggle clothing. "I think it would be a lot better for you over the next seven years if you learned how to treat your superiors."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, astonished at his manner. She had never been treated like this by an absolute stranger, much less one her own age, or near enough. "Pardon," she said acidly, "but I don't believe I have met a superior as of yet." McGonagall was certainly her superior but this boy didn't need to know she had met her already.

The boy's pale face flushed, detecting the sting of her insult. "You're just another one of those dumb bints that think being clever is all there is," he spat. "Cleverness means nothing compared to real power. Power you can only get from being one of an elite. A _pureblood_!"

Hermione immediately recalled the book she had read yesterday, _Various Customs in the Magical World_. It had an entire chapter on the 'elite families' practices, including their obsession with bloodlines. 'Pureblood' meant the witch or wizard had a long history of witches and wizards in their family, descending directly with no muggle taint. Halfbloods were children born from the unions of muggles and wizards, or wizards and muggleborns, and then there were the muggleborns. Like Hermione.

"I see," she said conversationally. "So you are a pureblood, then?"

"Of course," he snarled. "I'm a Malfoy! The most elite of the pureblooded families."

"Never heard of them," she responded primly.

The boy, Malfoy, widened his eyes comically. "No wonder," he breathed. "You're a filthy muggleborn!"

Hermione looked on in interest when Malfoy nudged his companion. "No wonder she's so dumb and ugly," he crowed. "She's a bloody muggle!"

The other boy seemed to be horrified by Malfoy's rudeness, but he said nothing to dissuade Malfoy from his blatant rudeness. He only sat still, smiling tightly at his friend when Malfoy jostled his arm and continued to rant.

"Merlin, I can feel the filth from over here," Malfoy declared dramatically. "It's bloody toxic."

How her 'filth' affected him now, when he knew she was a muggleborn, versus when he seemed perfectly fine upon entering the compartment was not lost on Hermione. She just didn't understand why he cared so much that he would be so impossibly hateful. He reacted so strongly to learning of her parentage that his face had flushed from vitriol. Hermione wondered if all purebloods were so racist; if so, she needed to be careful about what she revealed to others. She didn't want to be distracted from her studies by bullying.

"Tell me," Malfoy asked excitedly, "is your father some alley-rat git like other muggles?"

"He's a dentist," she answered, refusing to let his antics get to her. He was certainly beginning to annoy her, but she didn't want to have a fight on her very first day, before the train even left the station. Although, she could try to establish her reputation early on; it would perhaps deter others from bothering her.

"Whatever that muggle trash is," Malfoy continued doggedly, "I'm sure it can't compare to your mother."

Hermione stilled noticeably. Her mother was not to be insulted, ever.

Malfoy noticed the change and grinned snidely. "A muggle mother, Merlin. What a bloody tragedy to be birthed from some hideous slag that doesn't even deserve to wipe my-"

"What is your full name?" Hermione interrupted. When Hermione became angry, she did not shout or shake. Her fury was cold, hard. Her expression was empty, absent of anything to indicate her next move. Her immediate reaction to becoming angry was not to vent her fury with fists or screams. She planned, she schemed, she hurt. Her parents didn't know where her vindictive streak came from; they only knew their daughter could be unparalleled in pure viciousness.

Malfoy smirked, successful in riling up the filthy muggleborn. "Draco Lucius Malfoy," he stated proudly, sticking out his narrow chest.

"I will remember you," Hermione murmured.

"Good," he snarked. "You should remember me. It would be in poor taste for a muggleborn not to remember her superiors."

Hermione fingered her wand silently, already anticipating the violence she would pursue on this poor, stupid boy. Would it be better for her to imprint on these two boys her reputation now, with a quick flurry of the few spells she could cast? Or should she wait, and enact her revenge methodically? It wasn't a given that she would be placed in the same house as them, so this moment may be her only easy chance to make him regret that comment about her mother. However, it also wasn't a given that she knew nastier spells than they did. Purebloods had a distinct advantage over her; they had been exposed to magic for their entire lives, and doubtlessly had found some way to practice before schooling. If she attacked this smirking cretin, he might retaliate with more than she could handle. Then, her reputation would be soiled before she had even begun.

But it was important for her to vent this cold anger on him. She had to begin proving herself right off the bat if she wanted to get ahead in the magical world. By establishing herself as a witch to fear, not one to push around, she would be taking a major step in the right direction. Hermione had been feared at her normal schools. Students had learned that earning her ire also earned strange burns, bruises, and cuts. Now, she had to build back her reputation from the ground up, with much higher stakes.

The difference she would have to remember well between her old schools and Hogwarts was that normal students could only steal her stuff, push her, or tease her. At Hogwarts, students had magic on their side. Witches and wizards could not only act like her old classmates, but they could charm her shoes to stick to the ground before a set of stairs, transfigure her homework into mice that scurried away, or things not so benign. She had read of spells that constricted the throat, sucked all of the air from the lungs, even froze blood within their vulnerable veins. She couldn't risk that a student wouldn't use any hurtful spells against her. She could trust no one as she trusted herself.

Despite her reservations, she decided it was more beneficial to attack and begin establishing herself as a competent foe, rather than wait and risk missing her chance. Missing an opportunity would let these boys think that she was weak and defenceless. Hermione was many things: intelligent, calculating, ambitious, cold, loyal. But she was not weak.

The spells she knew were essentially only theory; she had had no ability to practice them before getting on the train, where magic was finally allowed. However, she had an impressive memory, and so a respectable repertoire of spells, wand motions, and theories that were all needed to cast a bit of magic.

"Well?" Malfoy smirked victoriously, "do you have anything to add, muggle?"

" _Petrificus totalus_ ," Hermione said, flicking her wand at an angle and jabbing it at Malfoy.

His eyes grey wide when his arms and legs slammed to his torso, held stiff by her magic. "How dare you," he fumed, "you filthy _mudblood_!"

The second boy's emerald eyes grew wide, looking from Hermione to Malfoy. Hermione was surprised when he expressed more consternation at Malfoy's term than her use of magic against his friend.

"Draco, it's not a good idea to call people that," he said uneasily, looking from Hermione's wand to Draco's reddening face.

"I don't bloody well care right now, Blaise! If anyone deserves to be degraded down to the dirt they are, it's this fucking bitch!"

"Dirt can't cast spells, Malfoy," Hermione said, pleased by her wandwork. He wasn't supposed to be able to move at all, but she had mostly achieved the intended affect with zero practice. His angry exclamations actually made her smile slightly.

Blaise, the other boy, had removed his wand and was holding it, seeming to question what he should do next. Hermione glanced at the dark wand and said, "If you plan to try and hex me in revenge, you will not like my reaction. I advise you to put your wand away, at least for now. You are welcome to try something later, if you think that is best, but I would not recommend it."

Considering her differently than he had before, Blaise put away his wand, curious as to how this would play out. The only time he had ever seen Malfoy so powerless was when his father, Lucius Malfoy, had punished him. For a girl, a muggleborn at that, their own age to so easily put him under her control... it was certainly titillating. A girl like this would be an excellent ally. Perhaps not a friend; her blood was a deterrent, and Malfoy would no doubt be seething for weeks after this moment. But she was someone to keep an eye on.

Threat handled, Hermione returned her attention to her bound captive. Malfoy was spewing venomous slurs, including the one that had made Blaise finally react.

"Are you done?" Hermione asked politely when he took a moment to breathe. He immediately resumed his tirade, and Hermione wondered that no other students had investigated the screaming from their compartment. " _Petrificus totalus_ ," she said again, and his mouth clamped shut with a clack. Furious grey eyes, melting into silver, scalded her. Or attempted to scald her, she supposed. If she really tried she could nearly feel a tingle, but perhaps that was her own amusement.

"You will never mention my mother again," she said, staring intently into his eyes. Malfoy shook slightly, despite the second spell, seeming to contain his laughter. So, he found her demand repellant and amusing? She would make it clear to this bigoted boy that her demands were not trifles or polite requests.

Hermione stuck her wand to his forehead and pursed her lips, concentrating on willing the magic to do what she wanted. She traced a word slowly, intently, and then tapped it with a whispered _colloveria_. "Prat" blazed into red existence, neatly stenciled across his forehead. She wished his face weren't so narrow; a broad forehead would be so much more impressive.

She could have sworn Blaise almost snickered, but his face was still when she looked at him. "There now," she said, "perfect. Perhaps now you will take me seriously, as you should have from the beginning."

"Your forehead screams 'prat,' mate," Blaise explained since Malfoy had no way to see his own reflection.

"You know..." Hermione muttered thoughtfully, tapping her wand against her thigh. "Maybe you need something else to drive the point home."

"That won't be necessary," Blaise interrupted, eyeing Hermione's wand. "In fact, if you give me a few moments with Draco alone, I think I could bring him around. Would you mind stepping out of the compartment, just for a minute?"

Amber eyes narrowed in suspicion. Blaise smiled to try to dispel her unease, but the muggleborn witch's gaze did not flicker. This witch made Blaise a little nervous, honestly. She wasn't afraid to make enemies. And, the way she looked at him, like he wasn't a human... She looked at him and analyzed his faults and strengths, figuring them in her head and deciding how to handle him. Her gaze was cold, calculating, like a serpent.

"I suppose," she said, standing. She had already changed into her school uniform and robes, eager to begin her new life. Blaise noted the expensive fabric of her black outer-robe. "However, if either of you touch any of my belongings, I will not be merciful."

"I don't doubt that," Blaise said as the compartment door slid shut after her.

" _Finite incantatem_ ," Blaise tapped his wand to his friend. Draco's limbs slackened, but the bright red script on his face refused to fade.

"What fucking filth," Draco spat, drawing his wand. "I'll hex her eyeballs straight from her skull!"

"Think about it, Draco," Blaise quickly blocked Draco. "I know she's right pissed you off, but think about how useful she could be!"

"I don't give a flying fuck on a broomstick about her uses!"

"What would your father do in this situation?" Blaise asked desperately, trying to corral his friend's anger. Draco was prone to tempers, and Blaise was very familiar with the tantrums the blond heir could throw.

"Curse her to thousands of pieces!"

"Maybe," Blaise conceded, "but he would also think about it all politically. We are about to begin making the connections we will use for the rest of our lives. A witch like that, despite her blood, will no doubt be someone important one day."

"I doubt it," Draco scoffed. "Real witches and wizards don't associate with mudbloods."

"Times are changing, you know that," Blaise responded, "no matter how we wish society is. What we can do is play to society's whims. Befriend, or at least make allies with, the talented mudblood. Think! It would make other student's think we are more inviting than our parents were, and we would have a powerful witch on our side."

"She's not powerful yet. A few first year spells don't mean anything compared to even fourth years."

Blaise pointed at the book she had left behind on the seat. "Look at what she reads. Advanced magical theory, at eleven years old. She's going to absorb lessons like a sponge."

"I find it hard to believe a muggleborn could be as smart, or smarter, than a pureblood, someone with magic throughout their entire family," Draco stubbornly insisted. "Besides, what does it matter if other students find us 'more inviting'? If the purebloods see us welcoming common filth, it might turn them against us. Frankly, a pureblood is a much better ally than a mudblood. I won't jeopardize future friendships by being nice to some marginally competent mudblood with a violent streak and bad hair."

Blaise nodded in defeat, but tried once more to at least prompt Draco to be more considerate. Maybe Draco didn't see the girl's potential, but Blaise understood the complicated magic she had executed, without any practice. There was no way muggleborns could practice magic before school started, until they got on the Hogwarts Express. That meant the girl could grasp spell theory well enough to not only nearly accomplish a spell like _petrificus totalus_ , but she had perfectly cast a coloring charm, while also directing the magic to spell. Magic like that needed deep concentration for a first year, and a deep understanding of how will shaped force in spells. The girl was perhaps weak compared to higher year students, but she certainly had potential to become someone very interesting.

"Consider things a bit, mate," Blaise implored. "I can't convince you to be friends with her. I see your points, and in most ways I agree. But I don't think you should count her out yet. Once other purebloods start seeing what she can do, maybe others will try to reach out, or at least stop being rude. We don't have to be friends with her, or even loose allies. I just think it's better to at least be open, unless I'm proven completely wrong about her."

"My galleons are on you being wrong," Draco insisted. "My father would never allow me, or my closest friends, to associate with a disgusting mudblood."

Blaise threw up his hands. "Whatever you say, mate." Draco crossed his arms and stared resolutely out the window, finishing the conversation. Blaise rapped on the door, and Hermione slowly reentered.

Hermione looked from Malfoy, glaring silently out the window, to Blaise. Without a word, she sat and resumed reading. At that moment, the train began to slowly move out of the station, into the bright day.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione quickly finished her book, making short notes in the margins with a feathered quill. The boys had eventually begun to talk quietly, and while Blaise was neutral, Malfoy completely ignored her. She was fine with that; his forehead still glowed.

A cart with many strange treats eventually interrupted the tentative peace. The boys bought several sweets, but she refrained. Her parents were dentists; she had a healthy respect for her teeth.

Noises echoed throughout the long train. Screams, bangs, whistles- she wondered what in God's name could make all that noise. Then she smirked to herself. Of course, magic could make millions of different noises.

To occupy herself, Hermione began to review her school books, rereading her various notes. Blaise looked curiously at her well-organized notes and thoroughly read course materials, but said nothing.

She hoped other students weren't like these boys. If everyone felt so violently about muggleborns, the next seven years would be very difficult. She had learning to do; she couldn't spend every moment protecting herself from her fellow students. With her first encounter, she had already been in a fight. Fingering her wand, she resolved to learn as much magic as she could, to defend herself. It seemed as though that would be her only option.

Eventually, the train began to slow. The sun had moved through the sky, bringing them into the evening. Train compartments began to clamber open, students moving into the lane to exit. Hermione looked to her trunk, imagining navigating all of her things from the compartment to the school.

"Leave it here," Blaise whispered when Malfoy stalked out. "The school handles it."

Surprised by the unlikely help, Hermione blinked and muttered her thanks. Blaise nodded and followed his friend.

A massive, bellowing man herded Hermione and the other first year students onto rickety boats. Hermione was too busy to worry over the state of their transport; she was looking at the castle.

The humungous structure sat on the edge of a dark lake, the setting sun picking out its tall towers in the dusk. Her eyes traveled over the spires and walls, awed by the sheer size. She wasn't sure how it compared to Buckingham, but she was much more interested in the magical school than the royal family.

Hermione stepped into the narrow boat, listening to it creak in warning. Surely, magic could fortify an old boat without a problem. Did the school simply have no care for the first years?

"What's your name, then?" a voice asked, distracting her. The redheaded boy in his drab clothing sat beside a diminutive black haired boy with glasses.

"Hermione Granger," she said, extending her hand in greeting. The redhead pumped her hand almost violently, smiling with his chocolate covered mouth. The bespectacled boy had a firm grip but a tentative gaze.

"Ron Weasley," the redhead introduced. If Hermione hadn't been put off by the chocolate around his mouth, the crumbs falling to his robes as he spoke certainly made her roll her eyes.

"Harry Potter," the other boy said. "But just call me Harry."

"Very nice to meet you two," Hermione half-lied. Harry seemed perfectly pleasant, but Ron's manners were quickly grating her nerves.

The boats set out into the lake by themselves, rocking the three and startling them into squeaks of surprise. "Wow," Ron gasped, peering into the water. "I wonder how that happened! Maybe the giant squid pushed us!"

"My guess would be a spell," Hermione said. "But what's this about a giant squid?"

Ron ignored her, or at least he was too caught up in his own excitement to hear her question. "Once we get in Gryffindor, we can do what my brother Bill talked about, and feed the squid Slytherins!"

"Feed students to the squid...?" Harry asked nervously, looking out over the dark, tumultuous waters.

Hermione was too busy considering Ron's statement to assure Harry that students were not a known prey of giant squid. She had read quite a bit on the various Hogwart's Houses and their founders. She couldn't decide whether she was more suited to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. She was certainly intelligent, but she was also loyal, and a diligent worker. While Gryffindor evinced values of valor and chivalry, she didn't believe it appealed to her. She was much more methodical than brash, although she wouldn't frown at being called brave. As for Slytherin, she certainly wasn't a pureblood. However, she was quite good at scheming and was monstrously ambitious.

Soon, the boats drew upon a black shore, and the first years were trundled, wet and cold, into a cavernous hall. A wide set of sweeping steps disappeared into the corridors above, drawing Hermione's attention when they began to move. Surely that broke the laws of physics? Yet, the stone grated and settled into position on the opposite side, leading to a new set of rooms and corridors.

McGonagall called the new students to attention. Her eyes met Hermione's briefly. "Tonight you will be called by name to be sorted into your Houses. After, there will be a feast, and then you will be escorted to your rooms by a prefect. You are about to embark on a wondrous journey of discovery. Magic, friends, and an entire world lays at your feet to explore. I expect all of you to appreciate the school for what it offers you, and act accordingly with respect. Your prefects will explain what happens when you don't respect the school and its rules. I suggest that you do as I say," she warned, half spectacles glinting in the candlelight.

Names began to be called, students walking through a set of great doors. As "Abbot, Hannah!" was placed in Hufflepuff, cheers erupted. Each student was sorted, raucous exclamations encouraging them to their new House. Quickly, it was Hermione's turn.

Keeping her back straight, Hermione walked through the doors. The small eleven-year-old girl stalked down the wide aisle between the tables, face hard set. Students watched her curiously as she ascended the steps to the dais, wondering if she would be placed in their House. She plucked the hat from the stool and sat, before quickly pulling it over her ears. She had kept a blank face, but now her nerves preceded her. The decision the ratty old hat made would determine the course of her schooling. She had to be careful to get placed in the best House for her abilities.

" _Ahhh, a smart one, yes... but no, I do not think Ravenclaw would suit you_..."

Hermione nearly leapt when the rasping voice echoed in her mind. The hat spoke to itself as it determined her House, magically reading the faults and strengths her brain offered.

" _Why not? I am clever, and I enjoy learning_."

" _That is true, but Ravenclaw will do nothing other than put you among similar kind_ ," the hat responded. " _Your House should help you grow, not keep you stagnant_."

" _Then what of Hufflepuff_?"

" _You are certainly a hard worker, and loyal... but it is the same. Being among those people will not encourage you to reach as high. Also, you seem a bit too mean for Hufflepuff... there's viciousness in you that would be ill-suited amongst the calm, diligent successors of Helga. No, while you have some qualities of a Hufflepuff, your talents certainly lie elsewhere_..."

Hermione frowned. Those were her two top choices, summarily rejected in short order. Gryffindor and Slytherin would place her among people she had less in common with, the chivalrous and the sanctimonious.

" _No doubt you will excel wherever you are... but you want to do more than just excel, yes? You want to conquer_."

"Yes," she whispered aloud.

" _Then you must be put in a House that pushes you, more than you even push yourself... perhaps Gryffindor? You are brave, but not brash. You defend the weak, but you also despise weakness. However, I am not sure_..."

The hat paused, seeming to gather its thoughts. The hall was completely silent, all eyes on the young witch that had been beneath the hat for over five minutes, the longest time since Minerva McGonagall.

" _Perhaps, your best fit would indeed be Slytherin_..."

" _But I'm a muggleborn_!" Hermione protested. What she had read on the subject had been very clear on the blood purity of Slytherins. Halfbloods were an occasional mention, but she had only read of two muggleborns being sorted there since the school was founded.

The hat chuckled. " _You do not know everything about yourself, witch. There is something ancient in your veins, something I have never seen in a muggleborn_."

Hermione's thoughts froze. Were her suspicions right, then? Was her father actually a wizard?

" _Slytherin would fit you well... yes, yes, you would be pushed to overcome adversity from your heritage. Your ambition would be well-fostered amongst Slytherin, the House of the cunning... you are willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want, yes_?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered, shoulders slumping as she realized the hat had made its decision.

" _Well, then I suppose it'll have to be_ SLYTHERIN!"

The table to the far left burst into cheers, casting emerald sparks high into the air. The thin white stripes on Hermione's uniform melted into color, matching her House. Her tie turned silver and green as she sat amongst her new House-mates.

"Welcome to Slytherin, firstie," a girl with thick black hair clapped her on the shoulder. "Home of the cautiously evil!"

"Don't go giving us a bad name," a boy interrupted. He looked at Hermione and winked, then said, "we aren't cautious at all."

"Cautious enough to not be caught," the girl laughed, "definitely a change from foolish lions!"

"And that, my dear," the boy grinned, "is your first lesson in Slytherin. Cautious enough to not be caught-"

"-but not so cautious that it was all for naught!" she finished, passing Hermione a plate of food.

"My name is Octavian Pernelle," the boy introduced himself. "Fourth year looking for some fun!"

The girl hit him solidly, but only earned a laugh and a smirk. "She's a baby!" she yelled. "Leave off!"

Octavian winked at Hermione, bringing down more of the girl's ire upon himself. "Ignore him," she muttered darkly. "He's incorrigible."

"Lucky thing about one-track minds is that it means I can focus on the truly important things," Octavian declared. "Things like witches, and quidditch!"

Hermione smiled cautiously when the girl groaned loudly.

The table welcomed it's last first-year when the hat announced "Zabini, Blaise!" Quickly, everyone began to eat their meals. Strangely, Hermione noticed that while the food disappeared impressively fast, there was not a pinky or napkin out of place. The fastidious purebloods were well-mannered about devouring their food.

"I'm Arianna Caldwell," the girl finally introduced herself with a grin. She passed Hermione a bowl of buttered rolls, and winked. "But you can call me Aria. Me and this buffoon right here are fifth year students, so if you ever have any questions, feel free to come to us."

Hermione nodded in thanks at the offer. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said quietly, hyperaware that this sudden friendliness might be fleeting, once her house discovered her heritage.

After a short and off speech from the peculiar headmaster, the houses dispersed to their respective dormitories. Hermione followed the green and silver flood of students down into the dank dungeons, the temperature dropping steadily.

"Now listen up, firsties," a prefect named Castella Swann bellowed, "the password to the dorms changes every two weeks, so keep your eyes peeled to the notice board for when it changes. Once we get inside, everyone go freshen up so you stop looking so bloody bedraggled, and then come straight back into the common room for the beginning of the year meeting." She eyed all of the young first-year students threateningly, hand clasped on her wand. "This meeting is absolutely mandatory. I don't care how tired you are, or who you are, or any of that shite. Now get inside! The password for the next two weeks is _argent._ "

All of the students shuffled inside, the older years quickly going into their familiar rooms. Hermione and her fellow first-years gazed around in curiosity and awe at their new common room. Three of the walls were a deep, verdant green, absorbing the flickering firelight from the great stone fireplace. The fourth wall was a thick window that stared out into the dark lake. Pale fish swam past, meandering with the student's eyes.

The room was set with velvet couches and chairs, strewn with decorative pillows. Low tables, ideal for studying, stayed between the couches, inviting Hermione to spread her schoolbooks over them for homework. The only protection between her feet and the cold stone floor was a thick patterned rug, looking just like something Hermione would expect to see in some Lord's home. The available walls were crowded with portraits of famous Slytherins, staring haughtily at their new housemates. Hermione watched as one portrait's figure leaned over and snickered to another, eyeing them in amusement.

"Get to your rooms and back out here in ten minutes, or I will go in there and find you!" Castella ordered, sending the first-years scurrying through an archway to find their respective rooms.

Hermione followed a gaggle of excitedly tittering girls down the left hall and into a room with five empty beds. The beds were large, with emerald curtains to provide some privacy. Quickly, the girls found their trunks at the end of each bed and began hurriedly dressing for the meeting.

Warily eyeing the girls she would be spending the next seven years of her life with, Hermione opened her trunk and began to place her books into a small desk shelf beside her bed. She resolved to try and be genial to the girls; it wasn't bright to make enemies of roommates.

"And what's your name?" A girl suddenly asked. Hermione offered her hand to the girl, quickly checking her short black hair and blue eyes.

"Hermione Granger," she introduced, noting the girl's smug expression.

"Pansy Parkinson," the girl rejoined, neatly ignoring Hermione's offered hand.

With a raised brow, Hermione withdrew her hand, listening to the quiet sniggers of the other girls. "A pleasure," she said, the word lingering on her tongue.

The other girls were introduced thereafter, but Hermione did not offer her hand again. Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, and Millicent Bullstrode each smiled politely, but Hermione could sense that it was not entirely meaningful.

Pansy looked over her books, obviously well-read and brimming with notes, with a sneer. "A swot then, I see. Maybe if you're bright, you'll at least be of some use to do homework."

Hermione smiled slightly, beginning to understand how things were going to go. "Only for a price, or an exchange."

Interest piqued, Pansy considered her new roommate. Hermione was lithe and tall for a girl their age, crowned with wild curls. Her stare was what held Pansy, amber glittering with just a suggestion of menace.

Pansy was not the sort of pureblood who could claim the nobility of a lineage like the Malfoys, the wealth of the Notts, the beauty of the Greengrasses, or the power of the Blacks. Her family kept their place on the outskirts of the elite through cunning and ambition. So when presented with this witch, who did not have a magical last name and stared at her with veiled viciousness, Pansy was given pause.

Perhaps it was too soon to make enemies of Hermione just yet, no matter how Draco raged. At dinner, he had described this girl using dirty slurs, yet Pansy was confronted with a coldly polite witch that seemed to hum with leashed violence. Pansy would have to tread a careful line to keep both the witch and Draco on her good side, at least for the time being.

"Perhaps something can be arranged," Pansy decided. "Until then, we have a meeting to make, and I would rather avoid having Castella hunt me down this early in the year. You can come with us, Hermione."

Ignoring her friends' questioning exchange of looks, Pansy turned and left the room. Her friends followed. After a moment to put her wand back in her robe pocket from where she had held it at ready, Hermione left as well.


	4. Chapter 4

"Now, we have some ground rules for this house," Castella began, the first years gathered around her silently. Across the room, the older students were in their own meeting, lead by a seventh year boy. Castella had beckoned the first years to their own corner of the common room, arranging them around her with orders to shut up and listen carefully.

"First of all, we already have the odds stacked against us. It's not fair, we all know it, but you all need to suck it up and deal with it, because I will cast an Unforgivable before I hear a Slytherin whining outside of this common room."

"All of the teachers, except our Head of House, Professor Snape, detest Slytherins," Pansy whispered to Hermione. "My mum told me they all think we are evil, untrustworthy snakes. It's because Slytherin has the most dark witches and wizards by far, so everyone is scared of us."

"What stupidity," Hermione whispered back, causing Pansy to grin. Hermione did not understand the aims of her fellow student and her quick change of attitude, but so long as Pansy was decent, Hermione saw no issue between them. She actually enjoyed the banter, despite being unused to getting along with others.

"Secondly," Castella continued, "don't get caught. I don't care what you're doing. I really, really don't give a flying shite if you're jinxing a Hufflepuff or snogging someone in a cupboard. You could be raising dragons on the Astronomy Tower and I wouldn't care one bloody white, unless you limpid fools get _caught_ doing anything."

Castella narrowed her fierce gaze on a rather rotund boy who was beginning to doze off. She pointed her wand and shot a burst of sparks straight into his face, causing him to splutter back into the land of the living. "You have to listen too, you lazy lump of lard," she growled, looking out over the small cluster of first years. "See, if he hadn't had been so obvious with his ridiculous snoring, I wouldn't have noticed and he would happily be off in dreamland, stuffing his face with sweets. But no, he got caught, just like all of you shouldn't be if you want to survive the tempers of the older years."

"So the second rule is thus: do what you want, but don't get caught. Any questions?" Castella's gaze seared into the first-years. "No? Excellent. Rule number three. If you have a problem with another Slytherin, keep it in the common room. We don't need teachers prying into our business, and we definitely don't need some self-righteous Gryffindor seeing a weakness. Any Slytherins caught fighting in public will be given to Snape, without mercy."

This caused numerous students to pale, leading Hermione to wonder about the reputation of their Head of House.

"Lastly, and most importantly, rule number four," Castella said, peering at the first-years seriously. "Stick together."

A boy snorted, and Castella cast a jinx that made him fuse with the boy next to him. "Yes, just like that," she said, twirling her wand, as the boys attempted to unstick themselves.

"I know it sounds like some shite your dear mum spouts off about your family, but listen here, nitwits. No one in Slytherin should allow anyone else to do a Slytherin harm. We take care of our own, and that's what sets us a level above the other houses. Bloody hell if your roommate's great uncle once hexed your third cousin's chicken coop. If any Slytherin lets another one down, this entire house will come for you, and there will be no consequences if you get hurt in an 'accident.' Outside of these rooms, we are an unbreakable unit, with no room for petty squabbling. In these rooms, its fair game. Keep that in mind when you're all pissy at each other around Christmas."

With that, the meeting concluded, and Hermione hurried back to her dorm, ready for a solid night of sleep before her classes. Pansy and the other girls all crawled into bed as well, drawing their privacy curtains around their beds and settling down for the night.

The next day, Hermione would get the first taste of her new school. Her blood hummed in preparation.

* * *

After a breakfast in which Malfoy glared impotently at her and Pansy continued to act disturbingly friendly, Hermione sat down in her very first class at Hogwarts: charms.

Professor Flitwick was miniscule. However, his enthusiasm made him seem to tower over his students, bowing them all backward from the force of his adoration for charms. He requested his students to retrieve their textbooks from their bags and set them squarely atop the instruction tables.

"Now," he instructed, moving between his students with care, "charms are a tricky subject, but not so complex as transfiguration, or so ritualistic as potions. Charms is all about memory and intent!"

He slowed to a stop beside one of his students, his attention caught first by her textbook, and then consumed by the faint magical signature emanating from her body. "My, you sure a studious one!" Flitwick said, tapping his wand against the textbook that fluttered with multicolored notes and bookmarks. "Have you already finished the book?"

"Yes, Professor," Hermione admitted, keenly aware of her classmate's eye rolls.

Flitwick sidled closer, trying to get a read on the peculiar magic he could sense, coiled around the student with gleaming complexity. He could almost envision the dexterous threads of many charms, tied into knots meant to conceal some truth he could not divine. However, now was not the time to satisfy his curiosity. No, this was a matter he should take to Dumbledore. A bespelled student was no trifling matter.

Flitwick clapped his hands together. "Ah, excellent! 10 points to Slytherin for preparation!"

The grumbles of her annoyed classmates subsided, and Hermione relaxed a fraction. Being a swot was okay when the benefits were reaped communally.

Flitwick continued his lesson, glancing every once and a while at the bushy-haired girl. Slowly, his students learned to levitate a feather, but the girl picked up the spell frightfully quickly. The professor watched as she directed the feather through the air, lazily flicking her wand.

After assigning more practice for homework, Flitwick dismissed his class and immediately went to see the headmaster. His student was bound tightly in charms and not a small amount of figuration, and Flitwick knew Dumbledore would be very interested in discovering why.

Hermione's second class of the day, Herbology, went as expected. Although she appreciated the advantages of understanding magical and mundane plant lore, she could not force herself to be passionate about it. She was very glad to be out of that class for lunch.

Cowed by Castella's lecture, Malfoy would only glare at her angrily from his side of the table, but Hermione expected a confrontation that night. Luckily for him, someone had removed the rest of her spell before dinner last night. It would have been a laugh to see him with the raggedy Sorting Hat sitting above his prat advertisement in front of the whole school.

Pansy, aware of Draco's ire toward their fellow classmate, shared a quick look with Blaise. The two had discussed the situation after first period, agreeing that Hermione was not a witch they wanted as an enemy so early in the year. However, they reached an impasse on how to handle Draco's virulent hatred toward the witch. Neither of them knew how to sway Draco, and the problem looked bleak. They finally decided to say nothing unless questioned, and just allow Hermione to put the blond ponce in his place, as she inevitably would. Then, maybe they could convince Draco that she was a good witch to have on their side of things.

Delicately spooning a portion of beans onto her plate, Pansy asked Hermione how classes had been for her so far. "Herbology is an unfortunate way to spend my time, but charms is interesting enough," the witch answered. "Potions is next, which I have high hopes for."

"Professor Snape is a taskmaster, but he's the only teacher in the building who favors Slytherin," a second year said.

"Flitwick seemed alright," Blaise chipped in. "He gave Hermione points for being a swot, which is a win in my book."

Draco seethed as his friend offered the muggleborn support. "Yeah, I suppose being insufferable is alright so long as it benefits the rest of us. Otherwise, you would be worse than useless."

Hermione ignored the jibe and stuck her fork into the breaded chicken, slowly taking a bite. She quirked a brow at Malfoy, who stuck his nose in the air and glared resolutely.

"After potions we have a free period, and then transfiguration," Pansy said. "McGonagall is Gryffindor's Head of House, so we shouldn't do anything to make her hate us too early in the year."

Hermione's attention was caught by the mention of the witch who had guided her into this new world. Gryffindor Head of House? Unfortunate, since Gryffindor was the antithesis of Slytherin, according to the rest of her house. But still, she could not deny the admiration she felt for the distinguished professor.

When lunch was dismissed, Hermione followed her fellow Slytherins back into the dungeons. The potions classroom bubbled and simmered with potions in stasis, glowing in flasks and giving off steam. Inhaling, she could tease the scents of herbs from the air, calming compared to the noise of her classmates settling into workstations.

Sitting beside Pansy, Hermione retrieved her cauldron and began to set up her station as the book had described. Pansy copied her diligently and gestured to the other Slytherins to follow suit.

"Have you really read all of our textbooks already?" Pansy asked in bemusement.

"I haven't finished Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Astronomy was useless, so not technically. I try to stay ahead."

"No doubt," Pansy quipped, before a tumbling roar of students bulleted through the door and into the empty stations.

The rambunctious bunch were glad in red and gold, and brought with them an assortment of noise. Exchanging an exasperated look with Pansy at the commotion, Hermione tied her hair back in preparation for class to begin.

Shortly after the Gryffindors had finally managed to seat themselves in some semblance of order, Professor Snape swept into the classroom. His robes billowed like a seeping oil spill as he glared down his hawk-like nose at the red and gold half of the classroom.

"I see that while some of my students are not complete imbeciles and have already prepared a cauldron, others may be more… challenged, as to how to read a simple textbook."

Hermione caught a laugh behind her lips, but she could hear Blaise and Malfoy snickering out loud at the insult. The Gryffindors swelled up in indignation, but Snape had already moved on to a new target.

As she watched her professor belittle the skinny black-haired boy, Harry Potter, Hermione grew curious. What had infuriated her professor to the point of verbally eviscerating a student he had not yet had? However, she knew better than to intervene. The teacher obviously had a vendetta to satisfy, and she would not step between them to lay herself bare for punishment before the entire class.

When Snape's instructions began to scribble across the chalkboard, Hermione and Pansy set to work. Each witch worked diligently, applying themselves to the task at hand. Hermione finished quickly enough to catch Pansy before she made an error.

"You need to mash the flobber worms, not just dice them," she whispered quickly, before Pansy could scrape the ingredient into her cauldron. The black-haired witch startled at the whispered advice, and then slid a piercing blue gaze toward her fellow witch.

So far, Pansy had actively worked to befriend Hermione, regardless of blood status. However, this was a moment to test the muggleborn. Would Hermione turn out to be as catty as other girls and purposely let Pansy fail, or was her advice true, and would she prove to be a Slytherin to the core? While Slytherins were cunning and ambitious, there was the most important rule to consider. They were allies now; later, the Slytherins would begin to compete amongst each other, finished with small games to attract loyal friends. For now, Hermione's offer was genuine.

Pansy laid her cutting board flat, mashed the rest of the flobber worms, and then scraped them into her cauldron. The potion shimmered, and then turned lilac, the exact shade the textbook described.

Yes, perhaps being friends with Hermione was worth flouting an ancient prejudice.

At least for the moment.

* * *

Transfiguration the next day was in a classroom much like charms, but for the tabby cat perched authoritatively at the head of the classroom. As soon as all of the students were seated, the cat leapt to the ground and transfigured into their professor, drawing some gasps from the assembled first-years.

"Transfiguration is not easy or simple," Professor McGonagall began. "It requires complex thought and an in-depth understanding of how magic is the shape of will. Can anyone tell me what I mean by that?'

Hermione's hand rose into the air. McGonagall was not surprised to discover the witch had an answer. The professor had been disappointed to see such a bright girl go to Slytherin, but hopefully the muggleborn found some friendly faces to keep herself company, although McGonagall doubted it.

"Yes, Ms. Granger?"

"Magic is the intention to change matter in some way. Witches and wizards use tools such as wands to direct the flow of intent and channel it into a focused burst that enacts a change in the chosen subject. So when you say magic is the shape of will, it means that it is a witch or wizards will that drives a spell to work, shaped using words and tools to accomplish whatever the caster intended."

McGonagall nodded, pleased. "Five points to Slytherin for an astute response. Now, open your textbooks to chapter one, and try to cast the spell to change a toothpick into a needle. I shall demonstrate…."

"Points from the Head of Gryffindor," Daphne Greengrass murmured. "And on the first day, too."

Hermione shrugged, causing her hair to cascade in wild curls around her face. "I already read the textbook," she whispered back, causing Pansy to roll her eyes dramatically and mouth _swot._ Strangely, the word was becoming more of a compliment than an insult when it came from her fellow Slytherins. Hope bloomed in Hermione's chest at the thought; maybe she wouldn't disappoint her mother. Maybe, these bigoted, prejudiced students would become true friends to her.

She could only hope, but a dark niggling in her heart reminded her to be careful, even as Pansy nodded approvingly when Hermione successfully turned the toothpick to a needle. Her intelligence wouldn't protect her from her housemates forever, no matter how many points she earned. She had to remember to watch her back.

But maybe she could open up a tiny bit, just to Pansy and a few of the other girls. It wouldn't hurt, would it?


	5. Chapter 5

**This is one chapter I changed slightly. None of the plot differs, just some dialogue in the first scene.**

 **Happy reading :)**

Albus Percival Wulfric Dumbledore clasped his fingers together and peered down at Filius Flitwick. "A charm, you say?"

"And a fair bit of transfiguration as well, if I'm to be called a professor," Flitwick added. "A more complicated spell I have rarely seen, especially bound to a _student_!"

Dumbledore frowned. While it had piqued his interest that a muggleborn had been sorted into Slytherin, he hadn't given Hermione Granger much thought. Then, reports from all of her professors had come flooding into his office. She had proved bright, exceptionally so. Even Snape, a notoriously difficult man to impress, had made murmurs of her possibly being a magical prodigy. And now, Filius Flitwick stood before him, claiming the bright young witch was encased in such spell work that he believed Dumbledore himself should investigate.

With a wave of his hand, two silvery phoenixes spilled from the tip of his pale wand. "Go to Professors McGonagall and Snape. Tell them to report to my office immediately." The patronuses took off, wispy shapes a blur as they sped from the room. "Soon we will have a master of transfiguration and the girl's head of house, then we may devise a way to handle this situation."

Flitwick nodded, seemingly mollified by Dumbledore's call to action. The short professor quite liked Miss Granger; he had never met a more studious, driven student, not even among his own Ravenclaws. Despite the obvious difficulty of being a muggleborn among Slytherins, the girl stood up for herself and held her head high. He greatly respected the temerity it took to ignore the venomous looks he noticed many of her classmates directed at her.

Quickly, Miverna and Severus arrived. "Is there a reason for such… urgency?" Severus Snape drawled, distinctly unamused at having to traverse the winding stairs to Dumbledore's office.

"One of your students is bespelled," Dumbledore informed.

Severus straightened in thinly veiled surprise. "Which one? Why?"

"The muggleborn, Hermione Granger. I have no idea as to why, but according to Filius, the charms and transfiguration work is decidedly suspicious."

Flitwick began to explain as his fellow professors looked to him. "The charms are interlocked in a foundational lattice that stretches over her entire body. The skill it takes to cast a three dimensional field over a moving, growing object is phenomenal! Each regular space within the charms work is fixed with an anchoring transfiguration spell. I can't even imagine the intent of a spell like this, unless Hermione is secretly someone else in disguise, which is much more easily accomplished by polyjuice potion."

"Which brings us to the question: did Hermione cast the spell herself, or is she unknowingly enchanted?" Dumbledore queried.

"She does not know," Severus immediately answered. McGonagall quickly agreed.

"She's certainly intelligent, but this spell work is mastery level charms," Filius added. "No student, no matter how capable, could cast that kind of enchantment."

"So then the question remains, who enchanted the girl?"

None of the professors had an answer for the headmaster.

"I can't imagine why any wizard would bespell a muggleborn," Severus ventured. "It would require an adult wizard intentionally finding the girl before she entered Hogwarts. It means that either the girl is keeping secrets about her previous involvement in the magical world, or she is a victim of some wizard's experimentation."

"She's not necessarily a victim," Minerva rebutted. She had a hard time imagining Hermione as a cowering victim; from what she had seen of the young witch, Hermione may have even participated in an experiment. She was very analytical in her approach to magic. "But that still serves the question of how she attracted an older witch or wizard, and managed to become bound in such an enchantment."

"Is there anything about her that would pique another wizard or witch's interest?" Dumbledore asked thoughtfully.

McGonagall sighed. "There is something I have noticed about the girl."

"Well?" Snape asked, quickly losing his patience. He did not like that one of his students was bespelled; it was a precarious position to have such a young girl in, especially when no one had any idea as to why. And, he was loathe to admit, Professor Snape... _liked_ the girl. As much as he could like a sniveling, swotty student, no matter her house affiliation.

"She looks like a former student, disturbingly so."

Severus quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed with theatrics. "Well?" he demanded again. "Which student?"

Minerva sighed. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

* * *

Hermione plunked all of the library books on the table with a resounding boom, earning a glare from Madam Pince. Ignoring the old woman, Hermione pulled a book on wizarding genealogy from the stack.

Quickly, she began to flip through the pages of old, illustrious magical families, dating all the way back to the discovery of the British Isles. The book was in random order, much to her chagrin. She was fast discovering, flipping through the pages, that going off of similar looks was not a good way to find her father in a genealogy book, if he was even in one to begin with. So far, she was having less than no luck in the hunt for her father. The only reason she believed he was a wizard was a simple gut feeling, which she deeply mistrusted. But she had nothing else.

Sometimes, though, she caught her professors giving her the strangest looks. Flitwick was the most common offender, but she had caught McGonagall numerous times, and had even spied Snape looking at her aghast, like she had some creature affixed to her face. She wondered desperately if maybe they recognized her features from a wizard, but she couldn't bring herself to ask and reveal her suspicions. She would rather no one know what she was researching. If her fellow Slytherins discovered her personal project, the teasing could turn more vicious. Even if her father was a wizard, she had no idea what she was going to do about it.

Letting her head fall to the table with a _thunk_ , she groaned in frustration. She knew it was a longshot to discover her father's identity in the first few weeks of school, but she had still hoped. Unfortunately, wizarding schools did not have magical yearbooks. She had been sorely disappointed to learn this, but Hermione wouldn't give up. She had to know who he was, like a burning in her stomach. She knew asking her mother would only upset her greatly, but she was running out of options and patience; she would give in soon if she didn't have any breakthroughs.

Hermione just needed to _know_.

* * *

"Hey, Flint!"

Marcus Flint turned to look, catching sight of Draco Malfoy. The blond heir strolled up to the fifth year casually, pointed face pinched in eagerness. Their fathers were friends, if it could be said a Malfoy had true friends. Marcus had known the arrogant Malfoy scion since the whelp was in nappies.

"What is it, Malfoy?" Marcus demanded. He didn't have time for sniveling pleasantries. Quidditch started soon, and he needed to practice to try out for the beater position.

"You know that first year with all the bushy hair?"

Marcus vaguely remembered some skinny first year girl with wild hair, but he honestly didn't pay much attention to first years if he could help it. "Yeah, what about her?"

And then Malfoy began speaking, and made Marcus realize he should pay very, very close attention to the particular first year.

"Is that right, then?" Marcus sneered. "A mudblood?"

Draco Malfoy smiled and sealed Hermione's fate.

* * *

In the several weeks since school had begun, Hermione had settled in nicely. Some of her fellow Slytherins were frigid, but there was yet to be a confrontation about her blood status like she had waited for during the first few days. Malfoy cast her smug looks every so often, but she didn't bother to try and puzzle them out. His sense of superiority wasn't worth her acknowledgement.

Dinner, the night of Halloween, witnessed her rather scatterbrained Defence teacher trembling and fainting over a mountain troll. With a grouchy sigh at the explosion of noise following this announcement, Hermione obediently trundled down the stairs with the other Slytherins, sent back to her dorms by the headmaster's bellows.

Thankfully, the common rooms cleared out quickly, students choosing to sit up and gossip in the comfort of their beds. The young witch claimed the chair closest to the blazing fire, her book by Morgan le Fay at hand. Since the room was empty, she could enjoy the read in rare silence. She had just cracked it open when a feminine chuckle interrupted her. She had thought she was the only person in the room, so where—

"I see my theories interest you, witch," the feminine voice laughed again from just over her shoulder. Hermione looked up to the portrait on the wall beside her. A tall, black-haired witch robed in deep black leaned on a hand and smiled. Startling amber eyes curiously observed the young witch looking up in bemusement.

"Yes, witch, I was reading over your shoulder. It gets boring up here sometimes. Come into the light of the fire so I may see better, if you will."

Hermione tugged her chair closer to the blaze, the heat nipping at her toes. "Is that better?" she asked, tilting the book so the face was open to the light.

"Ah, yes. I am interested to see a translation of my work. Look at me so I may see the face of the witch who reads what I discovered, and tell me your name."

"Hermione Granger," she answered, looking directly at the portrait with the firelight shining on her face. Hogwarts continued to surprise her; now, she was introducing herself to a painting. She knew portraits were personality and memory fragments magicked into static life, but she had still never considered holding a conversation with one.

The portrait of Morgan le Fay grew completely still, eyes flitting over Hermione's face voraciously. Then, she threw back her head in a great laugh, black hair swinging. "To think, my eyes would be seen again a thousand years after my death!"

Hermione blinked in confusion, staring at the laughing portrait. She was very rarely shocked into silence, but realizing the portrait of Morgan le Fay had been in the common room the whole time Hermione read her book and questioned the theories had set her head spinning. And now, Morgan le Fay was laughing at her, body shaking from the force of her humor.

Morgan le Fay finally began to calm, gathering her robes to kneel at the edge of her frame. "My dear Hermione," she said, suddenly very serious, "I am very keen to see your eyes more closely. Come stand before me."

Hermione, feeling stupid in her confusion, set down her book and went to stand before the portrait. "Salazar," Morgan le Fay breathed, eyes flickering between Hermione's own. The fog cleared from Hermione's brain when she understood Morgan's astonishment: Morgan le Fay had bright amber eyes, backlit by gold. Identical to her own eyes.

"Merlin surely twists in his grave to know my blood survived," Morgan said, still gazing at the young witch. "And here I see myself, a thousand years after my death, standing where I stood in the house I called home."

Hermione and Morgan le Fay favored strongly, sharing the same serious brows, golden eyes, and lithe frame. It was stunning, amazing—it had to be impossible.

"Your line died out five hundred years ago," Hermione said in confusion. "My book mentions it in the preface. Your line ended with a squib girl who married a muggle named— "

Hermione froze, brain whirling. She thought back, to when she had questioned McGonagall the first time in her own living room. She had asked if it was possible that magic was just a recessive gene, and that muggleborns were the lucky reappearance of the magical gene following a long time of inactivity. If she was correct, and she suspected she was, then a squib was not the dead end of a magical lineage. The squib could pass down magical genes, and eventually, a muggleborn could appear.

Morgan le Fay's squib descendant had married a muggle man named Thomias Miller.

After the marriage, the magical community had disowned the squib, forcing her into the muggle world and disallowing any of her descendants from magical society. Thomias Miller. Hermione's mother's maiden name was Miller.

"My mother's side," Hermione whispered hoarsely. "My grandmother had the same eyes. Your descendent was a squib who married Thomias Miller, my ancestor."

Her mind was in a tailspin. She had expected to discover her father was a wizard; she had never even considered that her mother's side could also be magical. After going through the family records in her home, she had written them off, unable to find anything that could possibly link to magical society. But it was impossible to deny how similar she looked to the witch in the portrait.

Morgan le Fay smiled. "Hello there, little daughter of mine."

"So I do have magical blood," Hermione whispered to herself, stunned. Did that mean that her father wasn't a wizard after all, and her power came from Morgan le Fay? No, it was something else as well. A pull in her gut still insisted that she needed to find her father.

"Are you the only one of my blood alive?" Morgan asked. Her stare was so intent that it made Hermione shift a bit in her seat, discomfited by the intensity. Is that how people felt when she questioned them herself, eyes piercing as an eagle's?

"I'm the only witch," Hermione answered, tucking an irate curl behind her ear nervously. "My mother is a muggle."

"Then you are my heir," the older witch nodded in satisfaction.

A snicker tore Morgan's gaze from the young muggleborn. "So it turns out the mudblood has some noble in her after all."

Hermione whipped around at the voice, Morgan hissing behind her at the slur. "Born from muggles or not, I claim this witch as my blood and my lawful heir. The headmaster will see to it."

Marcus Flint shrugged brutish shoulders. "I don't honestly give a shite what a painting of a bint whose been dust for centuries says."

Behind Flint, Malfoy came forward, pale hair glinting in the firelight. He smiled at her in triumph. "Not so fierce now, mudblood?"

Morgan snarled in indignation. "It matters not her parentage. She is of my line, which is steeped in more power than you petty fools know!"

Flint gave Morgan a bored look. "What are you going to do about it, stupid bint? You're a painting now. Not even a real person, just a collection of magic and memories some half-blind swot smeared on a canvas once. Now shut your bloody mouth up, or I'm going to rip your portrait to shreds."

"Daughter," Morgan whispered as the two boys began to stalk closer, eyes blazing. "I must trust you to defend yourself until I return with aid. My blood sings in you. Do not be afraid to use your power against them. Do not be afraid to hurt them." The famous witch swept her cloak around her body, transforming into a black eagle before soaring beyond the frame of her own painting.

Hermione had always been ruthless; it was her fatal flaw, besides perhaps the arrogance inherent in being young and exceedingly intelligent. While she had postured and pranced around the other Slytherins like she would inflict great harm on them at the slightest breath, she had never actually imagined the follow through. Now, she was confronted with these boyish, brutish imbeciles, and she knew she had to fight to escape them, or to at least survive. And, while she freely admitted (to herself only, in the quiet sanctity of her mind) that she had not thought she would be truly and viciously targeted, she was willing to use lethal force.

Disturbingly, she looked forward to it.

"Don't worry," Hermione whispered, drawing her wand. "I'm not."


	6. Chapter 6

**The reviews last chapter were AWESOME! I love it when ya'll tell me what you're thinking and make predictions. Judging by how ya'll felt last chapter about this inevitable showdown, some of ya'll will like this chapter, but some of ya'll might hate it. I promise, everything in this story has a purpose. I'm trying to avoid Hermione becoming a Mary Sue where everything is just given to her. She's going to experience pain and failure on her hike to the top, but every encounter she will exit stronger than she was before. She isn't the nice girl ya'll know from JKR's amazing series. This is all of her darkest aspects given power over the things that made her a Gryffindor. Slytherin Hermione is vicious and focused, just as Gryffindor Hermione was empathic and righteous.**

 **Some of ya'll are making some really great guesses as to her mysterious parentage. I loved the reactions to the big reveal last chapter, but there is so much more to come! Please let me know what ya'll think after this chapter, I'm anxious to get more reviews from the people who are following Hermione's journey. As always, feel free to point out grammar mistakes so I can go back and make corrections. This story doesn't have a beta, but if anyone is really experienced and wants to help a girl out, I'm not against a little extra help. Happy reading friends!**

"I can't have a mudblood dirtying my common room. Thankfully, the troll can distract the teachers while I clean up the mess," Flint said, stalking closer to Hermione.

Hermione had very few options for handling the wizards before her. She was quite confident she could defeat Malfoy, but Flint had many more years of experience and a reputation for cruelty. No matter how talented Hermione may be, she still didn't have the practice older wizards could claim; and it rankled her to admit that. She wished they had picked another night; her mind was still unfocused, distracted by discovering her heritage. Marcus had the advantage.

Before she could cast a spell, Flint jerked his wand and sent her sailing across the room and into the glass wall. Hermione felt vertebrae in her back crack at the same time her arm snapped. Fire shot through every inch of her body, sending waves of black pain rushing over her head. She struggled to stay conscious, although from her fuzzy vision she was sure she had a concussion from her collision. She bit her lip to force herself to focus and not scream at the agony, hot blood filling her mouth when her teeth tore her own flesh. But she could not stop the hot tracks dripping from her cheeks. While pain wracked her system, humiliation burned.

She had been too arrogant, throwing whip-lash comments any way she wanted. She hadn't been smart, hadn't been strategic about how she treated everyone. Above all, she hadn't truly believed anyone would retaliate. She had been foolish to rely on the intimidation her intelligence garnered. Now, she was trapped, hurt and defenseless with Flint and Malfoy.

From where her face was pressed to the floor, she could watch the advance of two pairs of shiny black boots. Even as she censured herself, surprise rippled through her. She knew people at Hogwarts could be mean and vicious, but she had never expected a straightforward attack meant to seriously injure. If Flint was confident enough to go after her so viciously, then he must not fear repercussions. Her heart skipped a beat as she made the logical conclusion: Marcus Flint didn't think he would be found out. Did he mean to scare her into silence? Or would he kill her? Could another student truly get away with something like this, regardless of blood status?

"That sounded painful," Flint remarked casually, strolling to her side to survey the damage. "Malfoy! Come here." Through murky vision, Hermione could see Malfoy standing hesitantly beside Flint, wand clutched loosely in his grip. He was looking between her broken body and the older boy in growing horror. Suddenly, Hermione realized that Malfoy didn't want this to happen.

She could imagine how the blond ponce had thought it out. He had approached the older boy with a cruel streak and told him of how they should fix the problem of her filthy blood status. Hermione had wondered why none of the other Slytherins had confronted her about being muggleborn; this had been planned. They had been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It hadn't even struck her as too strange when everyone else had gone to their rooms so early, even on Halloween. Teachers tonight would be busy patrolling to keep students from making mischief; the troll was a happy addition. No one would come from the dorms if she called, not even Pansy. No teachers would be readily available to rush to her aid. Her house had given her to Marcus Flint for the crime of her blood. At the thought, her heart that had slowly warmed to some of the other students froze solid and shattered beneath the weight of crushing disappointment and shame. Her few housemates that had reached out to her had tricked her into believing she could have _friends_ , for once in her life. Even Pansy and the other girls, who had sat in this very common room together just the night before to trade gossip and study, had abandoned her to blood sport.

But now Malfoy, who she had no doubt had organized the entire scheme, was having doubts. She could see it when his silver eyes flashed on her, taking in how her arm bent at a sickening angle, the blood beginning to become more obvious. Hermione coughed, and splintering pain in her side made her realize she had a broken rib, or several, also. Her tears really caught his eye; Hermione had never cried at Hogwarts, despite the teasing and snickering, and the prat knew it.

"You planned this, Malfoy. Come give her a good kick."

Malfoy was frozen in indecision. The hand holding his wand was trembling.

Hermione knew he hadn't imagined this when this scheme began to come together. He had imagined Flint scaring her into tearful submission, so that she would become the whimpering dog of the house, cowering at every footfall. Malfoy hadn't imagined her broken and bloodied, smeared on the floor like an insect.

Flint narrowed his eyes on the boy and then snorted, shaking his head. "Knew you were a bloody coward."

Hermione let loose a scream when Flint kicked her in the stomach, driving his foot straight into the cracked vertebrae. Hermione wondered in a daze if magic could fix paralysis.

"Kick her, Malfoy! Your father would have cast the first spell!"

Slowly, tears still falling unbidden from her eyes, Hermione cast her eyes to where her wand had rolled. While Flint was berating Malfoy, he didn't pay attention to the painful shifting at his feet. The witch thought quickly about how to reach her wand and what spell would be best to completely incapacitate Flint until Morgan returned with help. But her mind was fading in and out of clarity, ringing with Flint's angry voice and Malfoy's excuses.

She desperately wanted her wand, her most firm connection to her identity as a witch. Her hand felt empty without the slim length of wood. But even the thought of reaching her fingers, unbending her arm from its fetal hold on her body, sent a sob crashing through her broken ribs. With dawning despair, Hermione realized she couldn't reach her wand. Not that she wasn't trying hard enough, not that if she just strained a bit more she would succeed, like in every other task she had ever undertaken. No, _she was not capable._ No amount of work or struggle would shorten the distance between her fingertips and the wand.

Hermione couldn't reconcile that with what she accepted about herself. She could _always_ succeed in whatever she set her mind to; failure was simply not an option.

But… she couldn't move. Her body was shattered.

It filled her with rage. How dare these bigoted children separate her from a heritage she had been born to just as they were? She was just as deserving! Her arrogance raised its ugly, familiar head: she deserved it _more._ They didn't study and research their gift as she did. They just accepted what they were taught and didn't even dream of growing themselves magically beyond their schooling or shallow hobbies.

It was her, and not them, who was ridiculed for simply existing, even though it was she who was making the most of her magic. Hermione Granger, not Marcus Flint or Draco Malfoy, was the one who had to stare through tears at the wand she simply could not _reach—_

She hated them. She hated Flint and Malfoy, the vicious smirk and the regretful wide eyes. She wanted them to hurt like she was hurting, to feel the emptiness of a hand without a wand, to suffer as they were making her suffer.

 _Don't be afraid to hurt them…_

Hermione clutched at the voice whispering in her head desperately, trying to form some semblance of an urge to make one last reach for the wand just out of grasp. Before she could, Flint returned his attention to her, grinning.

"You know, I've heard you have to really mean a spell for it to work sometimes. It will only work if you truly, deeply want it to. I've been wanting to try this spell for a while now. After tonight, you won't ever look a pureblood in the eyes again. You won't try to turn us in, or someone else in the house will just join us next time. Anything you do, anytime you smile or laugh, I will be there waiting to destroy you again. I will be waiting to push your face," he spat on her cheek to punctuate his words, "back onto the floor, groveling where you belong. It will never end for you, you filthy fucking mudblood. _Crucio!_ "

Hermione arched in a soundless scream, vertebrae grating together and shattering further, her skull colliding with the stone ground, a reverberating and fatal _smack._ She seized in stuttered starts, thrashing her pooling blood in wide streaks at the boys' feet.

Agony shredded her nerves into ribbons, like her skeleton was being pulled from the flesh of her body, systematically disentangled from her muscles, tendons, veins. Hermione had never before felt pain, and she never would again, not like this. Not as a vulnerable twelve-year-old curled on the stone floor, spreading her own blood in frenzied arcs as she gasped and shook.

Marcus laughed and spat on her again. The glob of spit struck the corner of her cheek and dripped into her gasping mouth, opened in a rictus of agony and impotent, consuming rage.

For one achingly clear second, Hermione could see herself from above. Bloodied, broken, pathetic, fallen at the feet of her housemates. In that moment, seeing herself weak and powerless, she felt rage like she never had before. Her previous thoughts flooded her brain, forcing the pain to share its throne within her skull. How dare these boys, shaped into racist supremacists by outdated beliefs, try to strip her of the heritage she had been born into? She deserved magic just as much as they did, _more_ , but they would rather ignore her merits and seize upon her blood status. They towered over her, so sure of their superiority. Hermione realized that this was only a small sample of the future; magical society would always see her as less. Due to the accident of birth, her own talent would never be accepted, only scoffed at. Fury seared her retinas, surging through her veins, burning everything within her and building into a blazing inferno.

She was not some toy, some whipped dog, to lay at the feet of her tormentors in terror. Her old muggle schoolmates had discovered that she was not a girl to be trifled with. These schoolmates would learn that too, even if it burned her from the inside out.

Hermione felt magic gathering behind her sternum, building into unbearable heat, fueled by hatred and rage. Everything around her crackled, her back still arched into an impossible shape from pain. Sparks ran through her hair and along the edges of her skin. When she opened her eyes to snarl in fury at her tormenters, they blazed bright gold, her irises lit with magic and madness.

She had researched accidental magic in depth. Major outbursts were not abnormal, but certainly not common, particularly once a young witch or wizard had begun formal instruction. This sort of explosion would definitely be one her rational mind would note as an outlier. But she could consider that later, after she burned up all of her hatred and anger in a fire that could scorch souls.

Finally, when the building heat had become intolerable to contain beneath her skin, Hermione screamed, releasing the magical force within her body. She felt enchanting threads snapping at the strain, coming undone from her soul when magic surged forth. Fire exploded from her, riding the waves of her screams and forming into the shapes of serpents, dragons, chimaeras, and undefined demons. Rupturing from her broken body, the fiery monsters raced straight for the Slytherin boys in a fury of wild, untamed destruction. The conflagration swept the common room, turning furniture to char and ash, desecrating the emerald décor with gray soot. The creatures of fire wailed balefully as they wreaked havoc, a firestorm that annihilated all in its sight.

Marcus Flint yelled and ducked as a basilisk made of fire went soaring for him, turning to run from the common room as the uncontrolled magic sought his death, born from the hatred of the girl he had broken. A chimaera sank its blazing teeth into his leg, dragging him to the ground beneath its claws. His screams guttered out when the fire concealed him from view.

Blinking, the young witch watched hazily as limbs flailed and then stopped their movement so suddenly. She couldn't consider his death a loss; she had almost died at his hand. Morgan had said it herself: _Don't be afraid to hurt them._

Hermione finally lost her battle to the black waves of pain just as Dumbledore arrived.


	7. Chapter 7

Opening her eyes was As he grew older, Dumbledore had become more sensitive to dark magic. He could feel when its shadowy presence was within Hogwarts, inimical and taunting. So when the troll situation had been handled to his satisfaction and he had just dismissed the teachers to their normal posts, the insidious wisp of dark magic had caught him by surprise. Very little caught Dumbledore by surprise anymore.

Following the wisp, dark magic surged into blazing, screaming existence, buffeting his mind in harsh jolts. It seemed to demand his immediate attention by declaring its explosive birth, mildly introduced by a mere wisp but then cataclysmically shouted to his senses. He had very rarely felt magic so raw and furious; the fact that it was also dark disturbed him. The fact that its origin was within Hogwarts was most disturbing.

He had stiffened so perceptibly that Minerva had glanced at him in worry. Her question was interrupted by the swift flurry of movement in one of the portraits hanging behind Dumbledore's desk.

Morgan le Fay settled into Phineas Nigellus's portrait, shoving the irate wizard to the side as the eagle shook feathers from her form to stand haughtily before the assembled teachers. Amber eyes didn't acknowledge any except the headmaster before her.

Dumbledore was not well acquainted with the infamous Slytherin witch, but he had spoken to her portrait on rare occasion and had studied her advances in magic extensively. He knew she had been an exceptionally intelligent addition to wizarding society, despite the way that society had looked down on her for being both lowborn and a woman. She had risen through the ranks of wizards to claim a seat among the Sacred Twenty-eight due to her sheer, indomitable power and frightening pragmatism. The mysterious figure of Morgan le Fay was historically shrouded in intrigue, lending her an air nearly as mythical as Merlin's. Those professors that recognized her from around the castle held their surprise admirably, excepting Quirrel, who anxiously patted his turban and tittered to himself.

"Two boys are attacking the witch Hermione Granger in the Slytherin Common room as I speak. Hermione is my descendent, claimed as my heir by laws of blood and magic. I demand her immediate rescue!" Morgan le Fay's amber eyes flashed gold in command, like shining Roman coins, squared with Dumbledore's benevolent blue gaze.

The headmaster's mind worked quickly, connecting the sudden use of dark magic with Morgan's claim. Although he wished it weren't true, he could imagine several of Slytherin's more dark members using forbidden magic to assault a student. Especially a student those Slytherins reviled for her blood status.

Dumbledore had his own machinations afoot, but he was first and foremost a teacher; at the thought of one of his charges being tortured, he was spurred into immediate action. "Severus, Minerva, follow me to the dungeons. Filius, alert Madame Pomfrey that she may be expecting patients very soon. We must move quickly."

"Then _move_!" Morgan le Fay hissed from the wall. "If the daughter of my blood, the last witch of my line, is hurt, I will rain a storm on this crumbling castle like Merlin could not himself!"

Dumbledore swept from the room, Minerva and Severus on his heels, rather than question how a painting could carry out such a threat.

The teachers and headmaster reached the door to the Slytherin common room more quickly than old bones would have liked, but the destruction behind the door made the headmaster wish he had moved faster.

Fiendfyre reigned over the emerald room, transformed into a vision of gold and crimson by the flames that devoured the furnishings with impunity. While comparatively weak for Fiendfyre, the chaos in the Slytherin common room was complete. Minerva's hand clenched her wand tightly as Dumbledore thundered a spell to halt the dark curse.

"What student would cast such a curse?" she queried, almost to herself in the sudden quiet. Once the roaring of the spell had been silenced, they were able to hear the muted whimpers of several students.

Severus rushed to the heavily burned figure in the middle of the room, puddled on the stone in tattered green robes. "Marcus Flint," Severus said, turning the boy to his back. At the movement, Marcus gasped, pulling tenderized skin in a gruesome twist.

"He needs to go to St. Mungo's immediately," Dumbledore said. "Minerva, use the floo in my office. Go quickly!"

The Gryffindor head levitated the Slytherin with a wave of her wand and disappeared from the scene, her rushed footfalls pattering out of the dungeon. Severus quickly sussed out another source of whimpered pain, finding a badly singed, but uninjured Draco Malfoy concealed behind the edge of the fireplace.

"The Fiendfyre hardly touched him, but he is caught in the grip of shock," Dumbledore noted of the trembling boy. "Why did the curse choose to focus upon Marcus Flint instead, I wonder?"

"You can find answers to your questions that I am sure you already strongly suspect the answers to later," Severus interrupted. "One more of my students, the target of this attack, is not accounted for."

"Th- there," the trembling first-year whispered, pointing a finger toward the far glass wall. "He thr-threw her over th-there…."

Following the shaking finger, Severus and Dumbledore finally noticed the small shape huddled against the floor, unmoving.

Severus's black robes snapped in his wake when he crossed the space in half a heartbeat to kneel at Hermione's side. Inky eyes took in each of her injuries with frozen, lethal temper. Blood pooled beneath her head, leaking from her ears and steaming in her curls from the heat. Her limbs were bent in awkward, unnatural directions. One arm looked as if a centaur had purposefully pulverized the bone into infinite shards. Her body seemed so much tinier when it was broken.

Seeing the blood- _so damnably red-_ reminded Severus strongly of another time that he had been too late.

"The girl lives, but she has been tortured by Cruciatous curse, among more physical abuse," Dumbledore said, looking down on the witch gently.

"You could have prevented this," Severus seethed. He carefully slid his hands under her knees and shoulders; he would carry her to the infirmary himself. "You knew something like this would happen!"

The headmaster was quiet for a moment. "I truly did not expect this," he responded quietly, seemingly lost in himself. "I strong suspected an outburst was forthcoming. Many parents have written letters expressing their opinions on a muggleborn within Slytherin. But this is nearly beyond belief… I must confiscate their wands. I must know who harbors the darkness in their heart to cast Fiendfyre and Cruciatous without care."

Severus cast his mentor, the wizard who had given him new purpose, a thoroughly disgusted look. Then he left the Slytherin common room with no further comment, delicately carrying the broken witch in arms that struggled not to tremble with grief.

* * *

Madame Pomfrey enjoyed her work of healing.

She absolutely hated, within her most inner heart, when people were hurting. It made her entire soul ache in sympathy. So when the broken first-year witch was entrusted to her care, Madame Pomfrey began to weep.

The older witch carefully cleaned each abrasion, drawing her wand along each cut with personal attention to every bloody rend in porcelain skin. She feathered dry kisses on the blossoming bruises that stained the young girl's ribcage like clumsy water colored paint. She used damp cloths to gently wipe the blood from a beautiful, fine boned face, pursed against the pain not even potions and spells could successfully eradicate. Madame Pomfrey held the slim fingered hands in her own and whispered the healing spells she had used for decades; never had she been so desperate for them to work.

Every time Hermione Granger began to stiffen in her magically induced sleep, Madame Pomfrey coaxed more numbing potions down her throat. When the girl finally had slept a full twelve hours without beginning to seize, the medic breathed a sigh of relief and began the laborious process of bathing the comatose witch.

Madame Pomfrey summoned a large wooden tub and conjured water, heated with a murmured spell to an acceptable temperature. Carefully, she levitated the girl and lowered her body slowly into the bath. Wrinkled eyes clinically catalogued the injuries Hermione's naked body revealed. A dark splash along her ribcage denoted bruising from where her ribs had been broken harshly, likely by a kick if the medic's trained eyes knew anything. Countless scores of cuts from thrashing on the stone floor marred her skin, but those were the easiest to heal.

The older witch was confident Hermione would make a physical recovery. The most challenging injury had been the remarkably damaged vertebrae, but some complicated spell work learned from a St. Mungo's healer over floo call had enabled Madame Pomfrey to heal the girl's shattered spine. While that had been challenging, the Hogwart's healer had healed many challenging injuries over her career, all successfully, even that time a boy had accidentally vanished his own skull.

No, what worried Madame Pomfrey was Hermione's mental recovery. The child was only twelve, and she had been tortured by her fellow housemates at wand point with forbidden curses. It deeply pained the older witch that she could not cast a fancy spell to heal the girl's inner turmoil that was sure to erupt when she finally woke up. She knew it was the innermost injuries that were the hardest to heal.

Blood clouded the water as Madame Pomfrey set to the task of washing her patient. Strangely, the long curls that had been darkened to deep ebony with dried blood were not fading to their usual hue of warm, spiraling browns. The healer changed the bath water dirtied by blood and murk, but even once the water was clear, the young witch's wet hair did not lighten.

Frowning, the healer cast a scouring spell. It had no effect. She had not been around the bright young student often, but when the girl had come into the infirmary wing with her many questions and inquiries, the healer had definitely noticed that Hermione's hair was _brown,_ not pitch _black._

Leaning back on her folded knees with a huff of frustration, Madame Pomfrey looked her patient over. She paused in confusion. Hermione's hair was not the only thing that had changed since the healer last saw her.

Hermione's skin had changed from pink-toned and freckly to a lustrous porcelain. Madame Pomfrey had not noticed at first because of the extensive scratching and bruising that distracted from the pale glow of her complexion. Even the previously spattered sweep of her cheekbones had been cleansed of sunny freckles. Also, Hermione's slightly arched, thick brows were the same ebony her hair stubbornly insisted upon. Something about her features, now enhanced by the changed coloring, tickled Madame Pomfrey's memory.

She thought hard on all of the students she had had under her care in her decades as Hogwarts's nurse. Some rough and tumble students had spent more time in the infirmary than others; if Hermione's delicate features were to remind her of anyone, it was likely one of those students the healer had been around more often. What previous student had the same black hair and amber eyes?

Tapping her wand to her chin, Madame Pomfrey discarded the thought that she had seen Hermione's eyes before. The amber, tiger-stone shade was wholly unique to the muggleborn. But the hair paired with the slim, defined jaw and upturned nose… she had seen that combination before. In fact, when she thought of the riotous curls Hermione boasted when her hair was dry rather than clogged with blood or waterlogged, the features seemed even more familiar.

As she levitated the girl from the water and dried her, spells mechanically left her lips to re-bandage wounds as her mind strayed to the question at hand. The girl's expressive mouth that turned up at the corners with fey humor tugged at Madame Pomfrey's wits as she struggled to think through all of the students she had known over the years.

A drying spell caused Hermione's hair to blossom into wild curls, swallowing the pillow beneath its mass. Madame Pomfrey looked at the injured witch in the repose of potion induced sleep, ebony curls framing the slender edge of her jaw and the curve of pitch lashes on a porcelain cheekbone.

The witch paused in astonishment. Her gaze flickered over Hermione's face; the delicate jaw, the upturned nose, the large eyes and the mouth that rose on the edges in a manic grin when faced with a challenge—

 _Bellatrix Lestrange!_

The healer scrabbled to her feet and darted across the room before she finished the thought. Staring at the ghost of a brilliant madwoman, yet also a young girl just entering Hogwarts, the older witch forced herself to calm down enough to lift her wand.

The collie patronus gave Hermione a lingering look before sprinting to retrieve Dumbledore.

* * *

The headmaster of Hogwarts gazed down upon one of his first-year students and admitted to himself that she was indeed identical to the imprisoned Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange. When Minerva had mentioned that Hermione resembled a Black, he had agreed, but did not truly believe in any relation. But now, confronted with such damning evidence, he was forced to reevaluate what he knew about the Blacks and about the girl bound in bandages before him.

"Her hair—it won't go back to brown, no matter what cleaning spells I try! And her skin has changed too—"

"I will discover what has occurred to your patient, Madame Pomfrey," Dumbledore interrupted, withdrawing his wand. A moment later, a silvery phoenix soared from the room to find Filius Flitwick. "I have a certain suspicion in mind already."

"It's almost eerie, Albus! Even the way they smile…."

Filius Flitwick, who had been close by in the entrance hall when the patronus had found him, entered the infirmary and stepped up to Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey. He looked sadly on the bright student that shifted slightly in her sleep, brows pinched as she dreamed. Then he frowned. "Her hair wasn't always that dark, was it not?"

"It was not, indeed," Dumbledore answered. "Remember the day earlier this school year when you approached me with concern for the heavy charms work you had detected surrounding Miss Granger?"

Filius's eyebrows waggled in confusion. "Yes," he answered leadingly, "of course. But now," he gestured slightly with his wand and his face crinkled in confusion, "there is nothing there!"

Dumbledore looked at the student who was proving a curious puzzle. A muggleborn in Slytherin, the heir of Morgan le Fay, and now she was not even as she had looked originally. Just who was Hermione Granger?

The approach of loud arguing caused the three adults to look to the doors as Lucius Malfoy stalked into the infirmary, followed closely by a frustrated Minerva and ghostly looking Severus.

Lucius Malfoy strode right up to Hermione's bedside without a single glance at the comatose girl and angrily thrust a thick tome at Dumbledore. "Explain the meaning of this!" the irate wizard demanded.

"You must tell me what has you so flustered, Lucius," Dumbledore said. "It is sure to prove titillating."

With a haughty sneer that was truly ineffective compared to Morgan le Fay's, Lucius Malfoy opened the tome he had brought with him and pointed one long, imperious finger at the bottom of a page covered in illustrated miniatures of witches and wizards. "Right _there_ ," the man seethed between clenched teeth, "is an _impossibility!_ "

The gathered witches and wizards looked past Lucius Malfoy's pale, spindly finger to where his manicured fingertip ardently stabbed into a tiny portrait of a dainty witch. "She should not exist! I know this is some plot of yours!"

"Oh dear," Dumbledore murmured aloud. "This certainly complicates things."


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione's first thought upon waking was that even the cotton sheet felt too heavy on her sensitized skin. She began to tremble, memorized pain wracking her body.

"Oh, Merlin, Mrs. Pomfrey! She's awake, and shaking— "

"Now, now, dear it's okay, you're in the hospital wing," a warm voice began to murmur. Hermione could almost sense an adult hovering over her, worry and anxiety bleeding into the air.

"Here, I'm going to put you back to sleep dear, just hold still— "

Cool liquid washed down her throat, and Hermione sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Hermione's second time waking up was much more difficult in practice than thought. Her eyes were sealed shut with tears and grime. Slowly, she cracked them open to look around, bleary with disuse.

The hospital wing was white, sterile but for the sun shining in massive windows. Empty beds spread on each side, sheets clean and turned back, waiting for the next patient.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry," the voice whispered again. Looking, she realized that Pansy was at her bedside. Her eyes were swollen and red with grief. "We didn't know! Draco said he just wanted to scare you, and we didn't want to go against Marcus— "

"Everyone knew." It wasn't a question. Hermione's voice was brittle and rough from prolonged screaming.

Pansy began to cry. "The older years told us to leave you alone that night—and, and we all listened, we didn't know—Hermione, I'm so sorry, we didn't know what they had planned!"

Hermione had known she wasn't well liked in Slytherin, but Pansy and the other girls had become her friends. The first friends she had ever had. They sat together in class, at meals, in the common room, talking and laughing together. Hermione realized with a catastrophic bolt to her heart that the girls had not meant it. Every smile, invitation, secret joke; it had all been a farce to trick Hermione into opening herself up. And she had followed along blindly, too dazed by their acceptance to see the steel jaws closing shut around her. Her frozen, shattered heart did not even have the energy to twitch in reaction. Her chest was empty, void of feeling.

"You knew," Hermione said.

Pansy had become her best friend. At first, they had danced around each other like snakes poised to strike. But over the weeks, she had come to appreciate Pansy's snarky attitude and teasing humor. They had become close, sharing jokes and helping each other with homework or the other girls. Hermione had begun to entrust herself to Pansy, something she had never done with anyone except her mother. Now, she remembered why she had always found friendships to be so idiotic. Entrusting pieces of her heart to anyone other than herself allowed other people to damage her irreparably.

"Hermione," Pansy whispered brokenly, staring at her best friend through a sea of tears.

Once Hermione had begun to scream, the sounds scraping against the dorms all the way from the common room, Pansy and the other girls had realized their mistake. They had tried to go and stop Marcus, but an older boy was guarding the only way out. Pansy listened to Hermione scream in horror and agony from the hall, the noise scratching her ears relentlessly.

Pansy had realized too late that Hermione was worth more than a simple ally. She had begun the year by keeping Hermione close just to see what she was like, but it had transformed into friendship. She had become reluctantly impressed by the other witch's vast intellect and magical talent. Slowly, even Daphne and the others had grown close to the muggleborn witch, looking into her sparkling amber eyes without thinking of her blood status first.

"We didn't know! They wouldn't let us get to you…."

Hermione's eyes were dull now. Her blood stained the bandages wrapped around her body, red. The same red Pansy had seen smeared across the common room floor.

The same red she herself bled.

Those amber eyes looked straight through her, no longer focusing on Pansy. Hermione shuddered, pupils narrowing to pinpricks, before breathing deeply. "Leave," she said, still staring sightlessly.

"Hermione…."

She didn't respond.

* * *

Dumbledore took Pansy's old seat. Hermione continued to stare at something no one else could see, occasionally trembling.

"I have been gladly informed that you will make a full recovery, Ms. Granger."

She did not respond.

"But before you return to your dormitories, there is something very important I must tell you. Several weeks ago, Professor Flitwick approached me with a concern. He had noticed that you were bound under intricate charms work, but he couldn't discover the reason for it."

Hermione trembled and then stilled once more.

"The matter did not seem to be causing you any harm, so I allowed it to slip my mind— "

"No," Hermione rasped.

Dumbledore blinked in surprised. "Beg pardon?"

"You didn't notice it. You just forgot." Hermione turned a bitter smile on him, much too bitter for one so young. "I'm a Slytherin, Headmaster. And snakes don't matter to you."

Dumbledore looked on his young student. She was battered, bruises marring her pale face and disappearing beneath her hospital gown. Her arms, laid atop her torso, were bound in bandages all the way down to cover even her fingers. The nurse had told him she needed multiple doses of Skelegrow over several days and dreamless draught just to stop the unending screams. Never in his time as Headmaster had a student been hurt so badly.

"While that is not true, it is also a conversation for another time, Ms. Granger. As I was saying, Professor Flitwick noticed a complex enchantment cast upon you. Usually, the only way to break such an enchantment is for the original caster to methodically take it apart, spell by spell. But, a lesser known way to break such an enchantment is that, when the object of the enchantment is under great duress, the spells simply cannot stand the force and snap away like threads. Ms. Granger, have you looked in a mirror these past few days?"

Startled by the break from explaining, Hermione was surprised into shaking her head.

"Ah, well, I have one right here for you. Go on, look."

Dumbledore held the mirror at eye-level, forcing her to look into it. Deep bruising surrounded amber eyes, and her lips had been gnawed to bits. But what caught her attention was the strange luster of her skin. She had always been the same bland color her entire life; no amount of sun had ever changed her skin from its dull papery shade, other than to add freckles. But now, it gleamed, pale and smooth where her skin was unbroken. She raised a bandaged hand to touch her cheek in confusion, but the movement shifted her curls over her shoulder, causing her to pause.

Her hair had always been a mix of chestnut and coffee-colored strands. But now, the curls spilling over the pillows and blankets gleamed jet-black. It was not a subtle change between dark brown and black; her hair had transformed from coffee to deepest ebony. The contrast between her hair and skin was startling and alien.

"What happened?" she whispered, forgetting her ire.

"The enchantment was broken by the final Unforgivable. The strain the spell caused on your body forced the charms binding you to snap, revealing that the enchantment was hiding your true appearance. It is a very subtle, well-worked glamour to have succeeded for twelve years. I would not be surprised if it was meant to last much longer, perhaps even your entire life."

Hermione couldn't stop looking at the face in the mirror. The features had stayed the same, but her coloring felt wrong, too much contrast.

"The enchantment also hid you from genealogy spells."

Hermione began to shake. "So it's true then," she whispered.

"What is true, Ms. Granger?"

"When Professor McGonagall brought me my letter, I got curious. I wanted to know if maybe there was magic in my ancestry that had cropped up again in me. But looking through family documents and photos, I realized that I… am not my father's daughter. We look nothing alike. My birthdate is two years before my parents' marriage. I began to wonder if maybe, my true father is a wizard."

Dumbledore nodded. "Well then it does not come as a surprise to you or your family. That is, admittedly, a relief. I was not looking forward to that conversation. Now that the enchantment hiding you has been lifted, your name has appeared in a genealogy text."

Hermione watched without breathing as the Headmaster placed a thick book in her lap. "This is a magically updating record of all noble wizarding families," Dumbledore explained, lifting the embossed cover. "Once a child is born, the book will update to include the child's full name and date of birth. However, since the enchantment hid you, the book did not update with your information until three nights ago, when the enchantment was broken. Since then, you have been receiving all manner of owls, bearing letters and gifts."

"Let me see," Hermione said desperately, forgetting to keep herself collected. She had waited for this moment for months, years if she counted always wondering about the innate strangeness that set her apart from her peers. If she could tear the book from Dumbledore's hands and read it herself, she would. But her arms ached in protest when she tried to move them.

"Before you see this, you must understand that your life is going to change, Ms. Granger. Wizarding laws are very different from muggle ones, and you already have one claimant on your blood by Morgan le Fay."

"Morgan," Hermione whispered, remembering the portrait of her ancestor in a rush.

"Yes, she came to retrieve me when she felt you were in danger. She informed me to invoke her right of claim on you, as her only magical descendant. You are now heir to all she left behind, which is substantial. This inheritance would change a great deal of your life on its own, as la Fey was once a traditional seat among the Sacred Twenty-eight, the law-makers of magical government. As her only heir, you now have duties and responsibilities you must be educated in."

"Please," Hermione gasped, "I can worry about all that later. I just want to know who my father is." She was quickly losing control of her emotions, too ragged from her torture and the moment at hand.

Dumbledore tapped the book with his wand and pages turned themselves quickly, until finally coming to rest. His finger traced to the bottom of the large page, passing small ovals painted with tiny portraits. "Ah, here it is," he said, tapping a portrait of a black haired girl with amber eyes. "Astarte Black, daughter of Sirius Black and an unnamed woman, your mother."

 _Astarte Hermione Black._

 _Sirius Black._


	9. Chapter 9

Dumbledore sent Professor Snape to the Hospital Wing to begin educating Hermione on what her newfound heritage meant for her, bearing thick books and an overstuffed bag. The potions professor was vaguely irritated at the order, but he had grown to like the serious young girl in his house. She was diligent in all her studies, while perhaps too willing to call attention to her admittedly vast intelligence, and she did not cause a ruckus in his classroom. She sailed quietly under the radar in terms of disruptive behavior, which he vastly preferred in a student, especially compared to unnamed others.

He had always wondered about the girl. She had held a startling resemblance to his friend Regulus Black, but he had considered it a quirk of genetics. Now that her enchantment had been broken and he could see her true appearance, he was startled to see how closely she resembled her ghastly father, Sirius Black. They had the same chaotic hair and lithe form, although she came across as much more daintily beautiful than the cut edges of her father.

He would try not to hold her parentage against her, for she was also a part of Regulus, and a Slytherin. It helped immensely that she did not have the same grey eyes as her father.

Unfortunately, Snape realized as he reached her bedside and beheld her pale face, the girl was nearly identical to her cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. There was a similar madness lurking beneath the delicate beauty.

"We will begin with your la Fey heritage," Snape intoned, dropping several heavy tomes onto her lap. "You are the last scion of the la Fey house, which brings many responsibilities. All of Morgan la Fey's holdings were auctioned after the descent of her house, but the vaults in Gringotts remain untouched. Goblins do not care for the wizard way of things, so the finances of the vaults were never assumed into the Ministry of Magic. As soon as you are able, I or another will take you on an excursion to Diagon Alley to settle the transference of Morgan's assets to you."

Snape tapped one tome with his wand, and it opened to a page on ancient wizarding government. "You are too young to be seated among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but here is a chapter that will teach you its function and purpose."

"Exactly what sort of things can I expect to happen now? Is this all being… publicized or anything?" Hermione asked, wringing her hands in the cool sheets.

"I would have chosen to allow you to inform your housemates at your own discretion, but alas, it was not my decision." Snape curled his lip with distaste. "The headmaster has taken it upon himself to inform your closest friends, who undoubtedly owled their parents immediately."

"My closest friends?"

"Miss Parkinson, Miss Greengrass, Miss Davis, Miss Bullstrode, and Mr. Zabini, I believe."

Hermione did not consider any of those people her friends, at least not any longer; but it was still strange that Blaise was included. He had always been cordial, but certainly not friendly.

"I also have for you all of the correspondence that has been owled to you since your heritage was revealed. I have been instructed to help you… parse through it."

"… Correspondence?"

Snape lifted a large bag and opened the mouth. Hermione peered in to see hundreds of letters, all made out to _Miss Astarte Hermione Black, Honored Descendent and Heir of the High Witch Morgan le Fey, Heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black._

"Bloody hell," Hermione whispered, the curse slipping out before she could contain it.

"Correct," Snape replied.

Hermione was trying her best to absorb the influx of life-changing information. Without Snape's surly help, she didn't think she would have been able to handle any of it. She had theorized that her biological father was a wizard, but she had never considered that he was the equivalent of wizarding royalty. And compounding that was the news that she was a direct descendent of the esteemed witch Morgan la Fey, which launched her stratospherically higher than she had been before.

With her newly discovered heritages, Hermione was a veritable juggernaut of wizarding society. An ancient wizarding line believed totally extinct for a millennium combined with the power and prestige of a noble wizarding name had made Hermione into the prized jewel of magical Britain.

Luckily, she had Snape to help her navigate the treacherous waters of magical society. However, he believed she needed reinforcements.

"As I am not… female, I cannot instruct you on all of the variables of this new life. However, your cousin has insisted on coming to the school herself to meet you and begin your formal instruction. But before she arrives, I will help you sort through your mail."

Before Hermione could question him on the mysterious cousin, Snape cast a quick series of spells and letters began to fly from the bag. They sorted themselves into three haphazard piles, but not without a few becoming lodged in Hermione's hair.

Snape gestured at a pile filled with varying envelopes decorated with beautiful, looping script. "These are all formal correspondence from other wizarding families, likely congratulating you or welcoming you or inviting you to some useless function. We will go through these first, as they are the most important."

As Snape began to help her decipher the strange, upper-crust wizarding world, Hermione gradually became acquainted with what her new heritage demanded of her. There were functions, dinners, charity balls, politics, social niceties, business obligations, all sorts of things meant to twist and confuse her. She knew without a doubt that any self-righteous pureblood would dearly enjoy the chance to embarrass the new scion of the infamous la Fey and Black households. That meant she had to get a handle on her new life, quickly.

"You are not expected to attend any of these ludicrous events," Snape said when they opened the fourth invitation. "You have not accepted an official wizarding guardian in any case, so there is no need to respond. These letters are formalities from other wizarding families."

"Do I have to have a guardian?" she groused.

Snape glowered down his long nose. "Most assuredly," he sneered, "a mere girl of twelve should need a legal guardian to—"

"Guide me?" she interrupted acerbically. Annoying her professor certainly wasn't her favorite pastime, but it helped her ignore the sheer weight of her newly discovered ancestry.

The potions master heaved a long suffering sigh and ignored her comment with a dark look on his face. She grinned slightly. Then she remembered all that had happened and her smile went thin and sharp.

"Your guardian will likely be another from a notable pureblood background. Perhaps someone like a Malfoy-"

"Any Malfoy that comes near me will regret it."

Her quiet conviction, delivered with no inflection or change of expression, caused Snape to pause. He internally cursed his godson for his foolish actions against the girl; he had not known of her secrets, but Draco should have known better than to make an enemy of a witch that promised to become powerful and ruthless. Now, the situation was even worse when Snape counted that Hermione and Draco were third cousins. And terrifyingly, despite Hermione not yet knowing the ins and outs of wizarding society, Snape had no doubt her fearsome intellect would catch on quickly and then utilize the natural power that came with her last name to rain vengeance on her housemates. Snape would have to take it upon himself to encourage his idiotic students to first apologize to the housemate they had so wronged and then befriend her once again.

Looking at Hermione's blank face, Snape knew it would not be simple task for the young Slytherins to coax her into the fold. But judging by the mountains of letters surrounding her bedridden figure, every noble family had learned of the young Black heir; each family would encourage their children to befriend her, despite bridges thoroughly burned.

"I need to take notes," she muttered to herself, eyeing the piles of correspondence. Snape conjured a quill and parchment; she politely thanked him before immediately sectioning the parchment into neat blocks.

In the first block, she wrote the names of the noble families that had written her letters to congratulate her on "returning to her rightful place." She rolled her eyes at the pompous language of the letters. She drew small boxes next to each family name. When she had written a thank you letter and mailed it, she would put a check in the box. Some of the letters she had read had been polite and welcoming; others had bordered on mocking. Her vindictive half wanted to be petty and refuse to write the mocking letters a reply. But her logical half held sway over the matter; she wasn't going to go out of her way to offend families that could benefit her later out of immature pettiness. No matter how much she desired to ignore the letter a family by the name of MacMillan had sent.

Besides, since she was the last heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, it was purely her decision on how she got on with other wizarding families. She could build or destroy ancient alliances as she desired. The thought of the power over her own future was drugging, but she reminded herself that until she knew more, she wanted to let the other purebloods believe she would ally with any of them. She had bridges selected for the torch, but she wasn't ready to light the flame quite yet.

In the second block of her parchment, she jotted quick descriptive notes on the contents of letters from organizations such as Gringotts, which asked for her to come settle matters concerning her family vaults and la Fey inheritance; Flourish and Blott's, asking if she would like to resume the traditional Black monthly stipend for books from their mail-order catalogue; the Ministry of Magic, requesting she be escorted as soon as possible to their registration counter to finalize her titles; various companies, welcoming a member of the Black family back into their traditional spot on whatever board or committee; and most amusingly, a letter from a magical art association that invited her to sit for renowned artists in an attempt to capture the likeness of her ancestor, Morgan la Fey.

In the third block she organized, she created a comprehensive to-do list, refined and inspected by Snape. The most important task to accomplish was her Ministry visit. Until she had her new titles officially in order, she was going on her infamous Black looks, a tiny picture in a wizarding genealogy book, and the demands of a painting. Next, she needed to ward everything she owned and the area around her bed to protect herself. She already had a mental list of strong wards she had come across in her private readings that she intended to learn and use. While her official titles would protect her from the mainstream bigoted housemates, the pluckier Slytherins may still attempt to treat her as they had before, which was no longer acceptable; since she now had the power and prestige of noble wizarding names, she intended to use them.

Those two tasks would consume her until they were accomplished, but she persevered in outlining a detailed to-do list to occupy herself. Snape tutted in reproach or silently approved as she revised the list over and over until she had her next week perfectly planned, down to how many seconds she would spend at each meal.

Her third task was to visit Gringotts. She had quite a bit to do there between settling the Black vaults and the reopened la Fey treasuries, and the goblins' letter had sounded rather urgent, so Snape had advised she move it to a more important spot than seventh, where it had originally lived. Her fourth task followed directly from her third; once she left Gringotts, she planned to shop.

Her professor had begun to roll his eyes and insist she change it before she explained her reasoning. As a pureblood, there were certain expectations she needed to meet. Firstly, she needed her house's crest sewn in family colors onto the heart of her robes. She had noticed the tasteful embroidery on Theodore Nott's and Daphne Greengrass's robes. Since she had first met them, they had acted as well-groomed scions of their pureblooded houses. Hermione planned to emulate their cool, aloof manner, despite that she was no longer friends with them by virtue of their cowardice.

Hermione also had plans to respond to Flourish and Blott's letter in person. A mail-order book catalogue directly connected to a lesser Gringotts vault sounded like the most innovative aspect of wizarding society she had encountered yet; it was a positively modern approach compared to the inefficient medieval aesthetic wizards insisted on. While she was there, she needed to find more instructional texts on magical high society. Until whatever cousin Snape had mentioned arrived to advise her on how to act, she needed accessible information. She refused to ask anyone else for help, especially within Slytherin. The next time she spoke to a Slytherin student it would be to curse Malfoy within an inch of his weak, spineless, sniveling little life.

Those four tasks would take up the better part of the next two days. She had been excused from school activities by the headmaster to handle her affairs, and she had worked weeks ahead in her classes anyway. The next week was devoted only to settling into her new responsibilities and learning just what she was getting herself into.

Rhythmic clicking led Hermione to look up from her parchment, which was now covered in her neat, compact script. "It seems your cousin has arrived to take my place," Professor Snape said as he rose from the chair he had conjured at her bedside. They had just finished the last letter, from a Greek researcher requesting a donation. A wave of Snape's wand had the myriad scraps of trash fluttering into a waste bin.

A beautiful, but severe looking witch gracefully inclined her head to Professor Snape before turning on a pointed heel to peer at Hermione intently. The woman's hair was pulled into a slippery twist Hermione suspected was French, highlighting sharp cheekbones and angled brows. Grey eyes perused Hermione's face with careful attention, and seemed to find her lacking.

"Check on dear Draco for me, Severus," the woman politely ordered. "Tell him to write more. Until next time." Professor Snape sneered slightly but accepted the dismissal, leaving Hermione to face her strange cousin.

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap to bely her nerves. The woman regarded the ink staining her fingertips with a sniff.

"Well, you look just like Bella," the woman finally said after an interminable eternity of judging Hermione's appearance. "But there is enough of your father in you to see a resemblance. Bella's eyebrows were never so ungroomed."

Hermione nearly laughed. After months of being needled by her housemates, the underhanded comments of her cousin were less than ineffective. She remained silent, sensing the woman had a few more choice remarks to make before she became helpful.

"I suppose your eye color is from the le Fay ancestor on your… muggle side. Grey is the most traditional eye color for a Black, and would have been better suited for you. Gold is almost garishly feral." The woman crossed one ankle over another and tilted her head, thin lips pinched. "My name is Narcissa. Narcissa Malfoy, that is, formerly Black. I believe you have met my son, Draco?"

Fingers twitched into claws. Even the sound of his name nearly sent Hermione back into the blinding rage that had put Flint in St. Mungo's. "Yes," she said, struggling to maintain her façade. "We met on the express.'

Narcissa's polite smile revealed teeth but not emotion. "Excellent. I would hope that as cousins, no matter how distant by blood, you could become acquainted. He's a very bright, talented boy."

 _Talented at getting himself in over his head,_ Hermione hissed internally. She remembered the limpid fear and regret in his eyes, the same grey as his mother's. Yet he had still watched rather than stop Flint—

Limbs twitched in phantom pain and Narcissa looked on without losing her tiny, well-mannered smile. Hermione wondered if she knew every gory detail of that night. She wondered if Narcissa approved of what her son had planned for the mudblood.

 _Not a mudblood,_ Hermione thought with vicious pleasure. _No, worse. I'm one of you, but with the perspective of a muggle and the experiences of a mudblood. Except I have the power to stand up to you._

"He's an important part of Slytherin," Hermione said with chilling calm. "He's taught me quite a bit." _Like how I should never trust people who act friendly. To always keep strong wards around myself. To commit to an idea instead of cowering from the truth when it looks you in the eye._

"Good," Narcissa responded, smile in place and frozen eyes filled with taunting humor.

 _She knows everything,_ Hermione realized. _She knows how her son and another boy tortured me, a fellow student, a 12-year-old girl, and she just doesn't care, even though we're related. She just doesn't_ care.

Suddenly unwilling to cater to the calculating creature beside her, Hermione bared her teeth in a vicious laugh. The edges of her lips curled slightly, fey humor lurking in her eyes like thinly veiled threats. "I'm sure you were so proud of your scheming son for how he trapped the stupid mudblood," she said.

Narcissa's face twisted into shock and disgust when Hermione casually used the taboo slur. Most shocking to Narcissa was the girl's forward attack; no hiding behind coquettish half-truths and smiles for this one. As Hermione's face lit with manic glee, Narcissa was struck dumb by how much she was reminded of her brash sister, Bellatrix Lestrange.

"I burned the common room. I burned Marcus Flint, and oh, I _enjoyed_ it. Your son would have burned too if Dumbledore hadn't ended the spell before it had the chance to remember the weak little boy hiding in the corner." Hermione pressed her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes mischievously at the paling woman. "If he ever tries anything again, I will kill your son. It would be no great loss to anyone except for you. It would be a charitable _service_ to eradicate a wizard that squanders his talent on trying to scare little girls."

Amber eyes half-lidded with lazily promised violence, Hermione watched the older witch flounder with no small amount of venomous glee. Narcissa's grey eyes were wide and the small smile had slipped from her face in a breath, fear tightening her lips and jaw into fine blades.

Narcissa believed her son had never made a larger mistake than angering the unstable witch cozied in the infirmary bed. Severus had written at length the night of the incident to update Lucius and his wife on the situation and any possible outcomes. While they had laughed then over the way Severus described a 12-year-old, first-year student as an actual _threat_ to their son's safety, Narcissa was no longer laughing; now, she wondered if her son had inadvertently caused the girl to go completely mad.

For the majority of the year, her only son would be trapped in close quarters with a dangerously unstable young witch that Severus had claimed was years beyond her peers in sheer magical talent. Narcissa faintly remembered the violence her sister had wrought when her fellow students had gone against her in some way, often disproportionate in response to the slight. The identical ruthless gleam in Hermione's amber eyes had made Bella the most feared witch in first Hogwarts, and then all of magical Britain.

Narcissa had often wondered at night what life would be like if she had to fear her own sister. Now, her son would have to fear his cousin, and he had struck the first and unforgivable blow. Merlin, the girl had been tortured with Cruciatous! Narcissa's soul guttered when she realized that Bella's favorite curse had been introduced to her tiny, vindictive incarnation.

Making a snap decision that would no doubt disturb or anger her husband and son, Narcissa smiled warmly, dropping the cool mask she had shown the girl. "You are truly an heir of the Noble and Ancient House of Black. I'm impressed with your defense of yourself. I know you will use that lethal tongue to also defend your family name."

Hermione's eyes narrowed in suspicion when her haughty cousin settled into a friendly persona on a golden snitch's turn. The following compliments made her even more suspicious.

"I don't know if you have been informed, but tomorrow, and the next however many days it will take to get your affairs in order, I am who will accompany you on your errands. I'm sure you have an idea of the things that need to be done, such as claiming your title and inspecting your properties. Since you are a member of the family, newly discovered or not, I decided it would be nice to make it a family outing, to get to know each other." Narcissa smiled prettily, eyes shining. "Draco will come along, and Lucius is meeting us for lunch at a lovely place right on Diagon Alley. With Draco there, it will also be easier to begin teaching you how a pureblooded woman acts in public, both when alone and when escorted by a wizard."

She leaned in close to Hermione almost conspiratorially, eyes suddenly serious and stern rather than glittering with happiness. "Draco also desperately desires to apologize to you for his abominable actions. He's spent quite a while crafting his apology," she said, placing her manicured hands over Hermione's ink stained fingers. "You will let him try to make amends, won't you? He was terribly confused by that brutish Flint boy's ideas, my son was coerced into going along with something he _knew_ was wrong! Oh, and to think you're his cousin also! He's torn to pieces with guilt, he's simply depressed with regret!"

Narcissa's eyes were so openly earnest as they beseeched Hermione that it made her squirm in discomfort. It made her nervous that Narcissa could change so quickly from the detached pureblood to the sparkling socialite. Hermione herself had never had the talent for changing her personality to fit in with others; the best she could do was detach into an emotionless state where she simply existed without care. The rapid change from chilly to effusive Narcissa had undertaken threw Hermione off her game. The threat of impending violence leeched from her body, the fey smile sliding away. She just wanted Narcissa to stop looking at her like she held the key to eternal life in her ink-stained hands. The raw emotion in her expression was extremely disconcerting to Hermione, who had enforced rigid control over herself since she could understand what it was.

"I'll consider it," she answered, hastily withdrawing her hands from her cousin's grasp. It was the best Hermione could promise, anything to get the older woman to stop beseeching her with misty grey eyes. Of course, even if the apology was genuine and everything Narcissa claimed was true, which Hermione strongly doubted, it wasn't likely a few words would soothe the burn in her chest. Draco Malfoy needed to hurt, too. She just hadn't decided how yet.

Narcissa smiled gratefully and fluttered a hand over her heart. "Oh, I knew a girl as bright as you would recognize reason."

Hermione barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She didn't know what exactly had caused the drastic change within the woman before her, but she almost preferred the callous power player to whatever this was. The pale pallor of Narcissa's skin had gone deathly white as her eyes widened in horror, and then she had been smiling and happy half a second later. Hermione had triumphed because she had thought she had gotten to the woman by threatening her son, but the personality change was a shot Hermione didn't know how to interpret.

She would analyze the situation at her leisure when she had the time. For now, she had an obnoxiously friendly cousin to understand.


	10. Chapter 10

Narcissa Malfoy flooed into the main study. She knew her husband would be waiting for her there, staring into the fire or sitting at his desk while he considered all of the possible benefits and ramifications of having Astarte Hemione Black in their lives, as she undoubtedly would be.

Lucius stood from a velvet green chair when she stepped out of the flames. She smothered her surprise that she had been wrong, even after years of being comfortable in her knowledge of her husband's habits.

"Well?" he asked, watching as she removed her outer robe and tossed it over the back of a chair. A house elf appeared with a pop and took the garment to be cleaned without a word to the witch and wizard.

"You need to scrap every plan you've been thinking about since you noticed her name in that book."

Lucius's brows rose. "Oh? And why is that?"

Finally, in a place where she could drop all pretenses, Narcissa did something she never did. She kicked off her heels, took her hair from its confining twist, massaged her temples, and sat heavily in the chair nearest the fireplace.

Her husband was silently shocked by his wife's careless abandonment of the etiquette she had always religiously followed. He had been quick to anger when she callously told him to scrap his plans, but her out of character slouch and tired sigh led him to wonder what had so strongly affected her about the girl.

So Lucius did something he never did. He grabbed a chair by the arms and pulled it across the study until it was a bare foot from his wife's chair. Then, he sat down, long legs touching hers at the knees while he waited for her to gather her thoughts.

After a moment, Narcissa noisily exhaled through her nose and squeezed his knee gently. Her grey eyes, a trait famous among the Blacks that he had been delighted to see in their son, met his pale blue eyes seriously. "Did you ever see her in person when you stormed the school the other day?"

Lucius thought back. He had caught a glimpse of dark hair and a slight, blanket bundled figure. At the time, he hadn't even thought of meeting the girl he had found added to the genealogy book in person. He had been too confounded by her mere existence in name and illustration on a page that should have never had another addition again, so long as Sirius Black rotted in Azkaban.

"No, she was there but I didn't care much at the time. Why? Is she hideous?"

His wife's shoulders shook with laughter. "That would be a concern of yours, Lucius. Is she pretty enough to be associated with the family?"

Lucius's lips quirked, but his wife's humor touched on a concerning subject. "Well? You didn't actually answer the question. If she's unfortunate and looks like her father, then—][]\"

"Lucius!" Narcissa lightly swatted his leg with a giggle. "It kills you to admit Sirius was marvelously good looking, doesn't it?"

"I always thought he was rather too scruffy."

His humor was succeeding; the tension leaked from her shoulders, relaxing the lines around her eyes and mouth. "Oh, but he cleaned up for Hogsmeade's weekends. All the girls noticed."

He sniffed haughtily. "Even first cousins noticed, apparently."

She smiled softly at his exaggerated consternation. No one else got to witness Lucius Malfoy dryly tease his wife, not even their only son. Lucius and Narcissa hid their relationship from the world, because they operated best when no one else knew who they truly were beneath the veneer of wealth and blood status.

"Tell me what happened today," he gently encouraged. Even though he had loosened the mood to allow his wife to relax, they still had strategies to formulate in the face of such a shocking surprise as Astarte Black. They were Lucius and Narcissa, but they were also Malfoys.

"She was in the infirmary, reading the first batch of correspondence with Severus. She's a tiny thing right now, not like the Blacks at all, though I could tell she had their thinness. She must get her height from her muggle mother, although she still has time to grow into the Black figure I suppose."

"I hope she does," Lucius agreed. "I would rather nothing of her disgusting muggle blood exist over a Black trait."

"Don't forget she's also a le Fay," Narcissa muttered. "I went to the common room to visit with Draco since he still has a few burns—"

"Don't coddle the boy over a few singes," Lucius sneered. "Do you want the other families to think him weak?"

"He survived Fiendfyre, I should think that gives a mother the right to at least speak to him, Lucius. He could have been like Marcus Flint."

Lucius and Narcissa had sent a basket to Marcus Flint's room in St. Mungo's. According to rumors, he would be badly disfigured, if he even survived.

"Anyway," Narcissa continued, tearing her mind from the fate that could have been Draco's, "when I visited, I recalled the painting beside the fire place in the corner."

Lucius frowned. "The bowl of fruit?'

"There isn't a single still life painting in the Slytherin common room Lucius. This is why you can't be trusted to choose décor. No, it's a portrait of Morgan le Fay, from when she was younger. Hermione and Morgan le Fay have identical eyes."

"It's not a Black trait, but a le Fay trait is certainly not something to dismiss," he said thoughtfully.

"Le Fay and Hermione have the exact same gold eyes. Anyone who has seen an image of le Fay will recognize Hermione's claim without a doubt, which gives the girl quite a bit of power. She will have control over two seats among the Sacred Twenty-eight, and a lion's share of gold from the le Fay and Black vaults at Gringotts. It's incredibly advantageous for her."

Lucius nodded in thought. His wife was correct. Astarte Hermione Black was easily the most powerful woman in Britain, simply by merit of her blood.

"Lucius, when I first looked at her… her eyes were cold. Empty. She looked at me like a snake would a mouse. It was not at all what I expected of a girl who had been bullied for months and then tortured within her own dorm," Narcissa wrung her hands. "I prepared to meet a scared girl in desperate need of guidance. I thought it would be easy to offer myself as that guide, but when I saw how she sat straight and still, hands folded perfectly and eyes empty… I reacted poorly."

"Did you jeopardize our position with her?" Lucius asked, too calmly for the intensity of his stare. "We are her closest remaining relatives outside of Azkaban. It would be very, very displeasing to many of our associates if you alienate the girl."

Narcissa shook her head quickly, desperate to explain herself. "I began to needle her, to eke some sort of emotional reaction from her. Lucius, she was _unnaturally_ cold, more so than even Sylvia Greengrass has ever managed. For Merlin's sake, her fingertips were stained with ink but she still looked at me as if I was the one who should be begging for _her_ help. It was unnerving."

"I don't care how odd she is. She's a very powerful piece to have."

"I know, just listen! You will understand in a moment. I told her that Draco is our son. Lucius, from how she reacted, I wonder at how safe our son is at Hogwarts."

Lucius laughed. "A twelve-year-old girl doesn't pose a threat to a Malfoy, in Slytherin, at Hogwarts! No matter how Dumbledore meddles, he wouldn't dare allow anything to happen to Draco. The uproar would be enormous."

"I laughed at first too," she said quietly, seriously. "I need you to think back and remember when we were in school together. Slytherin was filled with vicious people, the ones who leaped at the chance to join the Dark Lord and use dark curses—"

"Narcissa," Lucius hissed.

She inhaled deeply. "Who was the worst, Lucius? Who in Slytherin was the most violent, unstable, terrifying—"

"Bellatrix. What does she have to do with Hermione?"

"Hermione could be Bella's twin. Not just her twin, but an exact replica, down to how their eyes look when they threaten someone."

"Don't exaggerate. Hermione is twelve years old. Bellatrix didn't become so… unstable until fourth or fifth year."

"No!" Narcissa shouted suddenly. "You're not listening," she settled down, grasping his hands to speak to him intently. "They have the same hair. The same face, the same smile when she's thinking of how she's going to enjoy making someone suffer. She looked me in the eyes and told me she enjoyed burning Marcus Flint alive, and that if Draco ever threatened her again, she would kill him."

Lucius, silenced by his wife's seriousness, closed his eyes. "I believe her," she whispered. "I really do. She had so much of Bella, I'm surprised she isn't Bella's own daughter."

"I don't care how we do it," she continued in a whisper, "but we have to have her on our side. I won't leave our son to live in fear, imprisoned in Hogwarts with a ruthless Bella, because of my pride in refusing to accept a mostly halfblood witch."

"Is she truly capable of cruelty like Bellatrix?" Lucius asked.

"The girl somehow cast Fiendfyre without her wand, and without Dumbledore sniffing too closely. Having her around Draco frightens me. What truly frightens me is that she's only _twelve._ Imagine what she could become by the time her education is finished! But if we have her on our side, imagine the possibilities of what we can help her become."

Lucius nodded in agreement; his wife's assessment was correct. Having the girl, who showed such lethal ability, would be akin to having the undisputed queen of the chessboard at their side. "How do you propose we do this then?"

"I'm taking her to run errands tomorrow to the Ministry and such. Draco is going with us, where he will make a full, sincere apology, even if I must strike him to create genuine tears. You will meet us for lunch, and you will be polite and welcoming."

"I'm almost tempted to just kill the girl," Lucius suggested.

Narcissa tilted her head in consideration. "No," she decided, shaking her blonde head. "Dumbledore is too interested in her now. She would be a massive benefit for his side. She possesses untold wealth and social connections, and he would undoubtedly try to use her family's reputation to draw others to his cause. No, she stays alive."

"Besides simply swaying her to us, what do we _do_ with the girl? Treat her like a daughter?"

"For now," she said. "She would be a good match for Draco perhaps, in the future."

"You just convinced me she's a _danger to our son_ and now you want them married?"

"If we do our part in raising her properly, we can groom the side of her that is Bella into something more stable. It's worth the consideration," she explained.

"You never answered my first question. Is the girl pretty?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "She's beautiful, and undoubtedly will only become more beautiful as she grows older. The le Fay eyes are stunning with the Black skin and hair."

"So they would be an attractive match then."

"She would make anyone an attractive match," Narcissa rebutted. "Even a Goyle would look magnificent by her side."

"I'll believe it when I see it," he argued stubbornly.

She smiled slyly at him. "Then prepare for lunch tomorrow. It is sure to be interesting."


	11. Chapter 11

It was unbearably painful for Hermione to listen to Narcissa Malfoy.

Narcissa groomed Hermione carefully. Thanks to Madame Pomfrey, the young witch had healed enough to finally begin the tasks she had laid out with Snape the day before. Unfortunately, her new "guardian" insisted on helping her dress. Hermione suspected Narcissa did not believe she could pick something appropriate out herself.

Bandages were removed and hospital clothes taken away to be cleaned for the next patient. While Hermione was largely healed after being in the hospital wing for four days, some stiffness remained. Potions and spells had encouraged the cuts and bruises to disappear rapidly, but Cruciatous left a deep, throbbing ache within her bones. The ache could only be assuaged by time, so she endeavored to ignore it so she could see just what her spiteful cousins had in store for her.

The older witch shooed Madam Pomfrey away, much to the healer's displeasure, to dress Hermione. Narcissa gently coaxed dress robes of dove grey, limned in silver thread, over Hermione's body. Beneath the robes (which Hermione could swear she had seen Draco with a matching set), she wore a knee length, white dress with pale lace that frothed beyond the sleeves of her grey robes. A slate grey corset of velvet ended just below her rib cage. Her usual black boots were deemed appropriate enough to honor their outing. Where Narcissa had procured such fine clothing on such short notice was beyond Hermione's imagination or care.

Much to her cousin's chagrin, Hermione's wild mane of hair refused any spells or potions meant to wrestle it into submission. Defeated, Narcissa relented to tying back the front heft with a silver ribbon that magically tied itself into a perfect bow. While opening Hermione's expressive eyes and clever grin, it also had the adverse effect of impersonating a dark thunderhead hovering ominously behind her head, threatening to burst into storm.

After she was dressed and deemed acceptable, Narcissa escorted her to Dumbledore's office. The headmaster watched the blonde witch carefully as she gently pushed a disgruntled looking Hermione Black into his presence.

"Headmaster," Narcissa greeted politely, if coldly. "As Astarte's closest female relative, I have assumed guardianship."

"Hermione. I'm still _Hermione_ ," Hermione interrupted, quite savagely for the relatively calm moment. "Yes, I'm a Black and a le Fay, and my first name may not be what I thought it has been for twelve years, but I will go by Hermione. _Not Astarte._ "

Narcissa smiled and shelved the argument for later, when Dumbledore wasn't present to witness. "Of course. My apologies, Hermione."

"You are not her only female relative, Mrs. Malfoy," Dumbledore informed. "There is also Andromeda."

Narcissa's polite smile didn't falter, although the mention of her estranged sister caused her neck to prickle. Lucius has suspected Dumbledore would intervene in such a way, so Narcissa had already formed a rebuttal. She would not allow her young cousin to stray from her pureblood heritage as her sister had, and she would not allow Dumbledore's ghastly Order to sink their talons into the girl either.

"Hermione is close in age to my Draco. You would not tear a young girl from her closest family, when she does not even have a sibling to help her within Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore smiled, "Of course not. But perhaps it would be prudent for Hermione to also meet Andromeda, sometime in the near future?"

To the surprise of both Dumbledore and Narcissa, Hermione rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and interrupted. "I am sick and tired of posturing. I see enough of it on a daily basis in Slytherin. I don't care about meeting anyone except for my father. When can that happen?"

Hermione had done well to contain herself until that point, but curiosity bowled her over when the elder witch and wizard discussed her like she had no say in her own future. Hermione was quickly realized that as a le Fay and a Black, she actually had total control over her own future now; the power was heady. Of course, she was restricted now by traditions she was only just beginning to understand, but she could work within those parameters much easier than when she had been a simple muggleborn.

Now that she had her to do list tucked securely into her coat pocket and all of her affairs were about to be in order, only one thought consumed her: Sirius Black. What did he look like in person? When could she meet him? Why hadn't she known of him? Her need to know was an all-powerful drive. The shape Sirius, her _father_ , took in her mind was indistinct, open to her imagination. She wanted a fleshed out image; she wanted to know what subjects he excelled in at school, what he did for a living. Hermione desperately wanted to know if she was at all like the mysterious wizard who had fathered her, and then left her in the muggle world.

She had spent weeks researching, trying to find any inkling of her father. And now, she knew his name.

And he was not there to meet her.

Dumbledore and Narcissa exchanged glances. "He is imprisoned due to war crimes," Narcissa informed. "In Azkaban."

Hermione's thoughts stuttered. Of all the reasons, this had been the least expected. Was that why he had left her? To spare her the prejudice of being the daughter of a criminal?

 _No,_ Hermione thought to herself. She couldn't romanticize him, not until she knew the truth. It was too easy to get caught up in girlish hopes about her absentee father. Until she had the chance to meet him, she would strive to keep herself reserved; already, Narcissa was watching her too closely, gleaning weaknesses.

But she couldn't help herself. Ever since she had found her parents' marriage certificate and she had realized the truth about her biological father, certain questions had consumed her. Why had he never claimed her? Was she a disappointment to him? Why had he chosen to leave her among muggles rather than wizards? She couldn't avoid the last question: wondering why he had left her among people who did not understand her, rather than wizards and witches who could have raised her amongst themselves. She could have avoided so much pain if he had just made a different decision.

Why had her own father left her to experience such pain?

Narcissa shook her from her morose musings. "It is high time for us to depart, Dumbledore," she said, forgoing any honorifics. "We have an appointment to make."

Dumbledore smiled genially, a typical twinkle in his pale blue eyes. "Of course, of course, who am I to withhold two ladies from their appointments?"

Narcissa and Hermione used the headmaster's floo to travel to Diagon Alley, whereupon Hermione looked directly into the fearful grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.


	12. Chapter 12

Dumbledore sat heavily behind his desk, his mind turning over the unexpected obstacle of Astarte Hermione Black, escorted from his office just now to meet the world. He had many plots twisting in his brain, and the discovery of an heir to the Black's nearly extinct house put everything else on hold.

This new discovery presented a number of immediate problems. He could not afford to let such a potentially powerful pawn fall into the hands of dark families, such as the Malfoys. Should the Malfoys sink their claws into the vulnerable young girl, they would have access to all manner of riches and dark artifacts, not to mention the sheer political power that came with holding two, no, _three_ seats on the Wizengamot, between themselves and the girl's. Due to the girl's la Fey and Black lines, she held unimaginable political power, and an unprecedented amount of raw magical talent. He knew the Malfoys and other families had also realized this.

Unfortunately, the girl's closest non-imprisoned and non-disowned relative was Narcissa Malfoy. Dumbledore needed a way to get the girl away from the influence of dark houses, as a guardian like Narcissa would undoubtedly draw her to the dark side.

He steepled his fingers and inspected the whirring instruments scattered around his office. They clicked and spun in silvery delight, unaware of his troubled thoughts. How could he remove the girl from the influence of her only relatives? The only person who could have a greater hold on her was—

Dumbledore's thoughts froze. Quickly, he conjured a sheet of parchment and a quill, neatly penning a letter. He had to move very fast to set things in motion if his idea was to come to fruition. He could accomplish several things at once should his hunch prove true. While the fallout from the man himself could be a potential problem, it was necessary to shift that pawn to keep the girl from the grasp of the Malfoys.

Once again, families and factions were coming into play, shifting the gears of a new war. In order to ensure the right side would win, Dumbledore would do anything, just as he had during the first war.

Even condemn an innocent man to Azkaban.

* * *

Draco Malfoy flinched when Hermione drew her wand, tucking his body in tighter to the man at his side. The tall wizard, his long, platinum hair pulled over his shoulders, stifled a sneer and tapped his cane against the cobblestones. "We will _not_ have a barbaric altercation on her first public outing, Narcissa."

Hermione, blinded by her rage, had been too busy rifling through her mental repertoire of spells that produced large amounts of blood to note Narcissa's pale hand moving. When the vine-wood wand was plucked out of her grasp and slid neatly into one of Narcissa's pockets, Hermione's gold eyes widened and then snapped into narrow slits.

" _Give it back_ ," she hissed, whirling on the woman beside her.

"Absolutely not," the wizard scoffed. "Let's take this inside Gringotts proper before even more people stop to watch," he said, eyeing a blonde witch dressed in horrid shades of clashing pink robes.

Before Hermione could argue, and turn a slight disturbance into a true altercation, Narcissa placed a hand on her back and dug in her nails, deceptively guiding Hermione gently through the floo room and into the familiar, cavernous room of Gringotts.

"Wouldn't it be more important for me to become established at the Ministry, first?" Hermione hotly questioned, digging in her heels to halt the haughty procession. She hated coming across like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but seeing Malfoy had thrown her off balance.

"If you were anyone else, yes," the older wizard replied. His hair was fashionably long, as mature wizards seemed to prefer. Exquisite robes, clearly tailored for his exact measurements, enhanced his long, slender figure. The black robes highlighted the smooth alabaster of his skin and the piercing silver eyes that watched her every movement. "However, titles are just papers, which are mostly useless unless backed by galleons. You will command more respect from Ministry officials once your vaults are in order."

"Also," Narcissa added, "it is more prudent to begin with the most difficult task." Her eyes shifted from side to side, flickering over the goblins seated around the hall and the people going about their tasks. So far, no one was looking their way, but Hermione caught the clear warning and settled her tensed muscles. There was no reason to draw attention; she was sure she would deal with plenty of that later.

"The Ministry will be a simple affair," the tall wizard said. He smirked slightly, reminding Hermione far too much of his son, who was standing partially behind his parents and avoiding her gaze. "We should not tarry here, else we risk people catching sight of Astarte and descending on her like animals."

Hermione struggled to ignore his use of her name as the wizard strode commandingly to the front of the bank, requesting immediate assistance. The goblins acquiesced, as happily as Hermione supposed goblins could accept orders, to the Malfoys obtaining a private audience with a goblin banking executive.

The room they entered was nearly claustrophobic, filled with smaller versions of normal chairs, bookshelves, and a desk. Hermione took it as a sign that the goblins did not care to cater to wizarding comforts. The close confines caused her to be nauseatingly close to Draco, whose shoes scuffed on the stone floor as he failed at subtly shifting away from the bristling witch.

Just like on the train, Hermione had multiple options on how to handle Draco Malfoy. However, now she had clear, obtainable goals, and much more power. She could accept Narcissa and the tall wizard's, who she assumed was Lucius Malfoy, guidance, use their obvious influence over Gringotts to develop her own connections to the goblin executive on his way to advise her, and thereby achieve one of the objectives she had penned on the note within her robe pocket. However, that would require for her to politely accept Draco's presence without causing serious harm to his person. Hermione could also use the opportunity before her to attack Draco, as his parents would soon be distracted by the arrival of the executive and would be unable to stop her from getting in at least one good hex. Unfortunately, Narcissa had her wand; Hermione believed she may be able to snatch it from Narcissa's pocket quickly enough, but was unsure.

She scowled to herself, chin sharpening in frustration. For now, she would accept Draco's presence, even as her blood boiled every time she saw his slick blonde hair and pointy face. It was simply the more favorable option. She had much more to gain by ignoring him for half a day. Perhaps, she could even lull him into a sense of security by gritting her teeth and acting forgiving; then, she would have ample time to plan revenge for a later, unexpected date. It would be all the sweeter for betraying what trust she could garner from him.

So Hermione brushed her curling black hair back from her face, curls that had begun to crackle with electric menace, and smiled. "Apologies for acting so rashly and pointing my wand at you," she politely said to Draco, who stared at her incredulously, as if she was an unpredictable creature encountered in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. "My emotions overcame me. I would much prefer to be friends, don't you think? Especially since your parents are being so helpful."

Lucius looked suspicious, but Narcissa smiled. "I find that to be an excellent idea, my dear. What do you say, Draco?"

He looked back and forth between his parents, searching for more clues as to their thoughts. None were forthcoming. His grey eyes nervously looked at Hermione; her face was placid, neutrally smiling. Her eyes were liked two coins: cold and gold, unfeeling. Uncaring.

"I suppose that would be alright," he ventured. When his father narrowed his eyes, Draco quickly added, "Of course I would want to be friends with another Slytherin!" He was greatly unnerved by how quickly Hermione had switched from threatening to welcoming, recognizing the drastic change from his own mother's repertoire of manipulations.

Luckily for Draco's nerves, the goblin executive entered the room, huffing his displeasure at being summoned by wizards. Hermione turned her eyes from Draco, and he wondered if the reason the Blacks named children of their line after constellations was because the night sky was just as dark and cold as themselves.

The goblin shuffled behind a slightly small, oak desk. The Malfoys and Hermione approached the desk and the goblin glared balefully at them, black eyes roving over each wizard and witch in obvious distaste. "What brings the Malfoys and a girl to Gringotts?"

Narcissa, stoically ignoring the goblin's lack of manners, smiled and placed her hands on Hermione's shoulders. "This girl is Astarte Hermione Black, the newly found heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and the last remaining magical heir to the great sorceress Morgan le Fay."

The goblin's scowl lessened, sensing the gold within a new contract. The Black and le Fay vaults had remained untouched for years, centuries in le Fay's case. The interest collected on the galleons within had been magnificent, but with regular use of the vaults, contracts required change.

It was standard practice at Gringotts' to enforce a sort of stasis over vaults that remained untouched for five years or more. This ensured that the goblins would get a say in who began to use the vaults again, as the witch or wizard was required to come to the bank in person to reopen the vault. In the meantime, the goblins would continue to collect lucrative interest on the vaults as the worth of wizarding currency fluctuated. This allowed for the goblins to tax a vault that increased in value at a greater rate, as it had been closed due to disuse, and no one would notice a difference in taxation.

The goblin executive, Grifvindurk, grinned toothily. In a lesser known clause of updating a contract, Gringotts collected a portion of whatever vault was being reopened as payment for maintaining a closed vault. For the goblins, opening the vault of the le Fay's, which had been closed for centuries, would result in a nice sum indeed.

"I see," he growled lowly, claw-tipped hands reaching within the oak desk to withdraw a packet of papers. "Is she of age?"

"Obviously not," Lucius Malfoy drawled, sneering at the goblin.

Grifvindurk scowled deeply, the deep grooves in his face making him look like an imposing cliff-face. "I never know with wizards," he snarled. "All ugly."

Draco snorted, but Hermione and Narcissa stepped forward simultaneously to take control of the situation. The younger witch barely withheld an annoyed sigh, but she stood still. She could gain more from carefully watching the older witch in moments such as this; Hermione had not been trained in pureblood social decorum. As much as it galled Hermione to admit it to herself, the best example available to her to learn from was Narcissa Malfoy and her pretentious, patriarchal, platinum family. However logical it was to sit back and observe, one of Hermione's more obvious flaws was her struggle to release control. Even as she remained silent and watched Narcissa attempt to charm the gruff goblin, her agitation at being forced to relinquish control began to rise.

She knew her agitation had another, deeper root than simple lack of control. The moment Narcissa had taken her wand, her chest had been itching heatedly. Separation from her wand had led to her torture. Her wand was her inviable connection to her identity as a witch, and she was quite sick of people taking her wand and threatening that identity with vile slurs and threats. She was wandless and in the presence of Malfoy once again, her magic trapped inside without its ordained focus.

Bloodlust, like she had felt in the common room, seeped at the sides of her mind. The red waves lapped almost gently at her focus, drawing her away from the present room and tugging her back into the animalistic, seething heart of herself, discovered in her moments of terror. She can't help but think of this part of herself as something Other, a side of her that her normal, calculating self would disparage. This part of her, drenched in red, wanted nothing more than blood and violence. The Beast looked out through gold eyes and wanted to destroy the other wizards and the witch in the room. She knew Draco acted out of prejudice that he learned from the adults before her; that inheritance has done nothing but condemn the parents, as well as the son.

It kills her, particularly the pacing animal inside her, shifting scales and snarling teeth, to acquiesce to their guidance, no matter how useful. She forced the beast, taming whatever form it takes, as she does not recognize the creature, back into its fitful rest. Even as it clawed in denial at her cool demeanor, she placated it by promising it and herself that she will ascend to her rightful place despite the Malfoys, and the Flints, and whoever else tries to stand in her way.

Hermione refuses to take either side. She will not be the pawn of the ancient old man who sought to ignore her until she was suddenly important. She will not be the pawn of the old pureblood families that would look down on her for being a halfblood while trying to leech off her newfound influence. _No_ , she decides. _I alone, I alone am a side!_

Her silent declaration goes unheard by any but herself and the lurking creature inside her, but she can feel the reverberations. Her magic shivers, another tiny piece of her unlocking; she wonders if her le Fay heritage was also hidden, until the very moment she decided to create her own battlefield and arrange herself as the only piece, not a queen, but an empress. As her mind's eye sees the dark chessboard, manned already on two sides by a phoenix and a peacock, suddenly a third front emerges, populated only by a single, magnificent piece: a dragon.

It is the second blow against the identity of Hermione Granger, a chip in the stone that will reveal Astarte Black. She can feel her old self slowly dying, but the creature inside her roars in triumph.

Golden eyes gleam as Hermione steps up to the desk beside Narcissa, intent on listening to every syllable. Her short mental detachment went unnoticed, except by perhaps Draco, who had been eyeing her suspiciously and fearfully the entire time they had been in Diagon Alley, wand held tight.

"…Yes, of course," Narcissa brightly told the goblin, ignoring his grumbling. "Since you will for now on be personally managing her case, Ast- _Hermione_ will need a way to reach you, Sir….?"

"The girl may write to me as Executive Grifvindurk," he huffed. "Any correspondence from _you,_ guardian or not, will be ignored."

Narcissa's smile stretched. "Unacceptable. I am the girl's legal—"

"Would you mind spelling that for me, Executive Grifvindurk?" Hermione sweetly interrupted. Her pride had reached the end of its rope; she had to take control of the situation before The Beast tore her to shreds from the inside out.

The goblin grinned toothily before enunciating each letter of his name. Then, he shoved a sheaf of papers at her. "Sign these and then someone will take you to your vaults."

Hermione perched herself in an empty, but cramped, velvet armchair. She quickly read the parts she had not deeply researched during her infirmary rest. Gold eyes skimmed over passages about bloodline rights and magical signatures, but stuck and slowly read passages on taxation and understood cuts that Gringotts reserved the rights to claim. "These terms are outdated," she decided, much to the outrage of the executive.

"There is no such thing as _outdated_ ," he snarled viciously, "when goblins _and_ dratted wizards can live well into their hundreds and sometimes further!"

"What if I made a counter proposition?" Hermione asked politely.

Executive Grifvindurk growled, "There is no bargaining with thieving wizards!"

"That is exactly what my proposition would have entailed, Executive Grifvindurk," Hermione explained. "It came to my attention in my History of Magic courses that wizards have been stealing goblin artefacts for centuries, without any sort of regulation or recompense. This is simply an awful reach of wizarding law!"

Executive Grifvindurk bared his teeth, unable to keep himself from agreeing. "Wizards have claimed goblin-made works for much longer than centuries!"

"My proposition," she continued, placidly ignoring the astounded look on Lucius Malfoy's face as she argued with the Gringotts' executive banker, "is that you, _personally,_ may accompany me into the Black vaults to reclaim three goblin crafted pieces of your choice.'

Executive Grifvindurk descended into thought, curling his claws into the wooden desk. Any item of goblin make was extremely valuable to the Goblin Nation. Opportunities like what the young witch offered were exceedingly rare, if not totally unprecedented. He owed it to his people to see just how far he could push the witch, since wizards never gave up goblin made objects for something so simple as avoiding a fee. The value of three pieces could well exceed the amount of the fee. "What about the rest of the stolen artefacts?" he angrily queried. "There are more than three in your vaults, I am sure."

"Those can be decided upon later, to foster good relations between my accounts and the goblins of Gringotts Bank," the Black witch offered. "Consider these first three pieces an introduction to many decades of happy service."

The goblin growled, but accepted her terms. The lure of retrieving thieved items was too strong to resist, which Hermione had banked on when developing an argument for using those items as a bargaining tool.

Narcissa placed a manicured hand on her shoulder. Hermione could feel the heat of the unwanted gesture through her clothing. "Excellent work," the older witch whispered as they all followed the executive from his office. "You will make a beautiful politician."

Compliments from a Malfoy meant nothing to her, but Hermione smiled anyway and forced herself to cooperate. She needed them for just these errands, and then she could plan her revenge on their son.

Executive Grifvindurk led the group deep into the bowels of Gringotts and onto a rickety, and frankly unsafe looking, metal cart. The cart was manned by a different goblin, which sneered at them and babbled to Grifvindurk in Gobbledygook. Grifvindurk grinned and then sat up front beside the other goblin, allowing Hermione and the Malfoys to fill the hard benches behind them.

The cart jerked to life with a shudder and then careened wildly on the track, stealing the wizards and witches into the depths of Gringotts' wet tunnels. Narcissa and Lucius looked mostly annoyed at the crazy ride, having grown used to the goblins' hostile form of diplomacy. Draco was clutching the metal railing, trying his best to cling for dear life while also avoiding touching Hermione. While the steep drop stole her breath, Hermione still ardently wished for her wand; it would have been a perfect time to sneakily shock the Malfoy heir.

The trip lasted well into an hour. The cart passed vaults, at first small and unassuming, but as the journey progressed they steadily grew larger, with more ornate doors. Finally, the cart came to the end of its track at the very bottom of Gringotts. The vaults there had massive doors, embossed with the seals and effigies of esteemed wizarding families.

"That one is ours," Draco told her proudly, momentarily forgetting his fear. Hermione squinted through the gloom, which steadily lessened as magic torches burned into life around them. Draco was pointing at large, bronze doors, so old they were tarnished to a deep grey-brown, inlaid with a silver crest picked out in black and forest green. The giant, silver M had two dragons edging it, and twining snakes garlanding the family motto: _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper._

"Purity will always conquer," Lucius said proudly, pale hair gleaming in the low light.

Hermione couldn't help the way disgust twisted her face. Was that really all her new society cared about? Blood purity? It was such a stupid thing to focus on when a witch could instead spend her lifetime becoming more powerful and furthering her magical gifts. She made a mental note to develop an experiment to test if there was actually a difference in the purity of a wizard's blood.

"That's your family vault," her cousin grabbed her attention. "The Black motto is _Toujours Pur_ , which means-"

"Always pure," Hermione interrupted, disappointed but unsurprised. Everything was about blood; it was an unsettling obsession.

The Black crest featured curling ivy around an angled shield, trisected into three fields. The largest field pictured three birds, ravens she assumed, while the second field was blank, and the third, top shield showed a hand holding a wand. The top point of the shield was concealed by an ivy-wreathed skull. _Charming_ , Hermione thought.

Executive Grifvindurk approached the vault's door and fit a large, ornate key into a previously concealed keyhole. The door swung open on large, creaking hinges; Hermione doubted the goblins cared to keep the vaults under their supervision well-oiled. She had also noted the grime clinging to the Black and Malfoy crests. She would be more surprised if the goblins took precious time out of loathing wizards to spend a single second making sure a pureblood crest sparkled.

"I will go in first," the executive stated. "No meddling until I have picked the agreed upon artefacts."

"Go ahead," Hermione gestured to the vault, the door barely cracked open to conceal the inside. "We will wait for you to finish out here."

Executive Grifvindurk had ignored her polite agreement and gone inside the vault as soon as he finished talking, but Hermione didn't take offense. Wooing the goblins of Gringotts would no doubt be an extremely difficult task; this was merely the first step. Any witch the goblins showed a favorable bias to would hold immense sway over pretty much anything, since the goblins didn't like anyone who wasn't a goblin. She honestly couldn't even guess how far having Gringotts as an ally would go, since there wasn't a precedent. The only other people who had the wealth to try to influence Gringotts were too snooty to consort with what most people saw as a hideous, yet useful, lower life form.

Despite the unknown advantages of such an alliance, she was nearly positive there would be very few, if any, drawbacks. After all, no witch or wizard would wish to alienate someone who potentially held power over their vault. It was a weakness of magical society to only have one major bank; it granted the potential to give any person with the ear of Gringotts unlimited power.

She could see the wheels turning in Narcissa's and Lucius's heads. They were impressed by how she managed the executive, but didn't see how her counter offer was better than the original fee. It didn't occur to them that she was being truthful before; she honestly wanted to foster good relations with the Goblin Nation. The Malfoys would never lower themselves to seek the favor of a lesser being. And that was one of the reasons why Hermione had decided to be her own side of the chess board: only she would be willing to ignore traditional pureblood snobbery to achieve her aims.

"This is a great time to discuss our next stop after Gringotts," Narcissa brightly interjected, the positivity of her words catching everyone's attention. "Establishing your official titles and having your family properties returned to you should be simple. The rather, well, _unorthodox_ way you discovered your true heritage caused you to become official in the books and on family tapestries, but the Ministry will still insist on the blood test they perform on all heirs who have come of age or unexpectedly inherited the role of Head of House."

"What does this blood test do, exactly?" Hermione asked warily.

"It's not something to be concerned over," Lucius assured. "Your finger on your dominant hand will be pricked with an enchanted, ceremonial dagger. The drop of blood will be smeared on a potion-treated parchment and then a spell will test for a degree of similarity between your blood and the blood of your last Head of House, Walburga Black, your grandmother."

"Doesn't sound too difficult," Hermione admitted. She was still disconcerted at the thought of being submitted to a blood test, but it really wasn't any different from muggle paternity tests. She was just lingering over her distaste for the blood obsession.

"Once the test proves what we already know for fact, the Ministry is going to go over any documents a Head of House would need. These documents will include one instating you as the official Head of the Black family, granting you control over all Black affairs. Other documents will officially grant you the Black properties that were not assumed into other families upon your father's sentence, access to your seat on the Wizengamot, and any other legal matters the Black family was once involved in, such as ownership of any businesses," Lucius said.

Hermione was reluctantly impressed with the knowledge of Ministry workings he so casually described in succinct phrases. Lucius provided valuable insight that mere research could not compare to. Lucius, as Head of the Malfoy House and the Malfoy seat on the Wizengamot, had a lot of experience manipulating wizarding bureaucracy. Even as she reaffirmed herself again and again that she was independent of their political schemes, she couldn't deny that until she got her bearings, the Malfoys were her best source on learning how to assimilate herself into the wizarding hierarchy.

She had to consistently remind herself that she had nothing but time to figure everything out. Even as events seemed to race onto her tight schedule, she had many years ahead of her to plan. She was only a first year, despite how impatient she was to advance herself in her studies and her newfound political power. It would take years before she become a true political threat, discounting her automatic influence due to her blood. She had the talent and cunning; what she lacked was experience, which she could learn from Lucius and Narcissa.

"I assume establishing your position as Morgan le Fay's successor will be the same. If you are truly her direct descendent, as the portrait claims, the blood test will prove it. Following that, Narcissa has reserved lunch at Bardella's Bistro in Diagon Alley, after which I will take my leave, and you three have plans to complete other tasks."

"Acceptable," Hermione nodded.

Executive Grifvindurk reemerged from the vault, carrying an ornate pair of gauntlets inlaid with gemstones, a curved dagger, and a gleaming collar made from strips of precious metals. He was grinning widely, revealing sharp teeth. He handed his glittering haul to his associate, who also grinned and began to caress the items subtly as he stashed them in the cart.

Then, the executive turned to Hermione and the Malfoys and grinned even wider, before shutting the vault door and locking it.

Lucius sneered, "What is the meaning of this? You received your due!"

"I won't let any wizards into the vault until I see official papers declaring the girl as the Black heir," the crafty goblin informed the group. "Gringotts doesn't let anyone claiming to be a Malfoy into your vault, do they? There are protocols-"

"You tricked us!" Lucius fumed. "You let us think you were going to let us in so you could retrieve your bloody baubles, knowing you wouldn't let us in anyway!"

The goblin's grin had yet to be diminished. "Return with proper identification, and someone will let you in. Until then, my time here is over." Executive Grifvindurk ambled to the cart and reclaimed his seat, chatting happily in Gobbledygook to his companion. Unable to force any other outcome, the witches and wizards unhappily climbed into the cart, which immediately began the perilous trek out from the deepest bowels of Gringotts.

On the ride, while Narcissa's anger was betrayed by the tight pinch of her mouth and Lucius looked a heartbeat away from an outburst, Hermione reflected that she had a lot to learn before could compete in politics, seeing as her first political foray in attempting to make allies had been not only been used against her, but firmly rebuffed.

However, she was not going to give up yet. She was nothing if not stubborn.


	13. Chapter 13

The Ministry visit was almost as uneventful as Lucius Malfoy had claimed it would be, except for the small matter that Hermione had become a major celebrity practically overnight. Reporters had been lying in wait at the Ministry for days, correctly assuming Hermione would eventually be escorted through the main atrium to establish her official positions. While Lucius and Narcissa had assumed there would be some people present to see the biggest scandal of the century in person, they had underestimated just how starved the media was for sensational news. And thanks to the machinations of Rita Skeeter, they had been kept in the dark by their normal contacts at the Ministry on the size of the crowd that was gathering to see Hermione in the flesh.

The moment the Malfoys and their reluctant charge exited the floo, they were bombarded by bright flashes and shouted questions from scores of ravenous reporters. Draco openly gaped at the seething mass of flickering cameras and jostling bodies. His parents immediately put their placid, confident demeanors in place, and Draco quickly emulated them, used to observing his parents for social cues. However, Hermione was not so quick to react.

Hermione was quite used to receiving attention from teachers due to her academic excellence, but never in her life had she been hounded for something to the point of attracting a swelling crowd of people begging for her attention. She felt like she had been hit with a powerful confundus charm; her emotions and reactions were in disarray. She had no idea how to handle the questions hurled her way.

"Miss Astarte, how do you feel about being the daughter of a convicted mass murderer?"

"Heir Black, do you feel it is your duty to repopulate the House of Black?"

"Do you intend to press charges against your attackers?"

"Have you visited your father's cell in Azkaban?"

"Does your father know you exist?"

Hermione desperately wished for her wand to hex the words from every reporter's mouth. Narcissa noticed the growing tension in the young witch and clasped a firm hand over her shoulder. "Do not let them get to you," she hissed, too low for anyone to hear. "We can handle the Daily Prophet later. Focus on getting through today."

The witch was right. She knew enough about magical news to know it was just the same as muggle tabloids. The Daily Prophet printed for sensation, not fact. She could give them a bulleted list on herself, and every word would be misconstrued simply to write a better, more entertaining story. Later, she could volunteer for a formal interview with a reputable reporter, because feeding the frenzy now would only increase the drama. She needed time to sit and prepare herself to release her story, and she would _not_ let any of these fiends pressure her into answering volatile questions on the fly.

That was another thing for which she would no doubt require Narcissa's help. She had never given an interview in her life, but she would bet galleons the Malfoys were used to the spotlight.

She couldn't help the gratitude thawing her heart toward her female cousin as she calmly and gracefully strode through the reporters, shepherding Hermione. Lucius, acting as the commanding Malfoy patriarch, thumped his cane against the floor and demanded an immediate auror presence to protect his family. Hermione did not miss the fact that he didn't single her out, he included her as his family.

She witnessed the power of the Malfoy influence and prestige firsthand as aurors swiftly descended on the reporters, threatening to restore peace with their wands if they needed to. It was a testament to how well-respected aurors were as the crowd quickly stepped back to allow the Malfoys and Hermione to walk past without issue. The Aurors couldn't stop the continued flurry of photos, but the screamed inquiries hushed to a more ignorable level.

"Do you know the names of those aurors that helped?" Hermione asked Narcissa quietly as they passed a massive, imposing statue in the center of the atrium. She didn't have time to inspect the monument as they walked at a clipped pace to a set of golden lifts.

"I only knew three of them on sight, but we can find out the names of the other two quite quickly," the poised witch assured. Hermione nodded in satisfaction.

They entered the lift alongside a stoic auror escort. The man didn't say a word except to nod his acceptance of Hermione's whispered thanks. Despite his silence, Hermione felt comfortable in his presence, relieved at the guarded escort after the tumult of the atrium.

Narcissa smiled at the auror. "We didn't have time to turn in our wands before the debacle. Is it acceptable for you to hold them for us, so we don't accidentally break any rules?"

It was very clever of her to offer such an advantage, as it may have gone unnoticed that the Malfoys had retained their wands until much later, if at all. Narcissa was acquiescing to the power of the Ministry willingly. It showed she, and her family by extension, respected the Ministry's authority. From what Hermione understood of wizarding society, the political power of the Malfoys entitled them to get away with quite a few things, yet she was submitting to the law at her own disadvantage. While she understood the political power play, Hermione didn't think she would ever be able to pass up an advantage like that, especially when it came to her wand.

The auror nodded and accepted all of their wands, stowing them inside his over robe. Hermione's eyes were glued to the brief glimpse of her own wand as it transferred possession. She was still agitated to not have it in her own grasp, but she felt slightly better that now, no one had a wand, excluding the trained Auror.

Hermione missed whatever exchange brought the group to the correct floor, too focused on her wand. She followed Lucius diligently down a long hall lined on either side with glass cubicles. Each cubicle was populated by harried looking men and women dealing with mountains of paper work. Paper airplanes, flying under their own power, zipped by on their way to other office cubicles. The office spaces gradually grew larger, obviously belonging to more important people as they went on. Eventually, they came to the end of the hall and stopped before a wide set of ornate double doors. The glass to this office was fogged with a privacy spell, preventing a glimpse inside.

"Due to the high profile nature of establishing your official status, only the Head of the Department of Public Information Services _himself_ is acceptable to handle your case," Lucius explained. "Any of these employees," he gestured at the long row of cubicles they had passed, "are undoubtedly able to help us, but I will have no one but the department head work with such an esteemed family as the Blacks, not to mention the famous le Fays."

Hermione scrunched her nose slightly at the heavy-handed flattery, but accepted it without remark. She could have sworn the Auror's mouth twitched in amusement, but his expression was so blank that she suspected she had imagined it.

Apparently satisfied that he had enraptured the young witch with his appreciation for her lineage, he strode toward the double doors of the head official's office. The doors opened of their own accord, either charmed to do it when someone approached automatically, or because the person within expected Lucius to arrive. Hermione imagined the doors slamming shut on the tail end of Lucius's expensive robes, and how amusing it would be if he fell to the ground, squawking in surprise. Alas, despite her ardent hope, he walked through without incident, and the rest of the group followed.

The auror took a post to the side of the doors once they closed, leaving Hermione to gaze around the richly appointed office in appreciation. Tomes on law, philosophy, and government lined handsome oak shelves from floor to ceiling. She knew herself well enough that she could admit any room would seem richly appointed to her if it contained a fair share of books, but interesting titles such as 'Foreign Politics on Magical Creatures' and 'A Treatise on The Application of Veritaserum' left her hands itching to get ahold of them.

Once her attention had wandered off the bookshelves, she noted the wingback chairs set before a hardwood desk. The back wall behind the desk was home to a portrait of a genial looking wizard with great tufts of grey hair sticking out around his head. The portrait was nearly identical to the man happily shaking hands with Lucius, his bulbous stomach barely contained by the straining buttons of his purple striped vest.

"Sir Malfoy! A pleasure, a pleasure I assure you! I always said you know, back when dear old Abraxas was around, that you would become a fine wizard!" Presented with nearly suffocating flattery himself, Lucius looked more annoyed at the festive handshaking and compliments than appreciative. While Hermione believed Lucius's flattery was more inclined to be for his own purposes, she had the feeling that the fawning man truly meant every word he said. He was just a round mass of positive sentiment.

The man turned his attention on Narcissa next, who graciously accepted his compliments on her beauty and charitable services. With Narcissa, Hermione couldn't tell if she was annoyed or not; the woman was a paragon of polite social interaction.

All too soon, it was Hermione's turn to be the center of his attention. While his bristly mustache accosted the back of her hand, she couldn't help but feel slightly smug that he was greeting her before the twit, Draco. She believed Draco Malfoy had never been passed over as the most interesting child in the room in his short life, until this moment. Oh, and perhaps until Harry Potter came around. After all, even she wasn't as famous as the Boy Who Lived.

"Miss Astarte Black! I cannot describe the joy meeting you brings to me!" His mustache and ear tufts were quivering with palpable excitement.

Was it even worth the bother of continuing to correct people on her name? "The joy is all mine, Mister…?"

"Oh, I am Marcellus Murdoch, Head of the Department of Public Information Services. It is not a grand title, but it pleases me very much to hold it, as my father before me it so happens! Of course, you may call me Mr. Murdoch, no need for too many formalities here," he introduced himself. "Truthfully, knowing the prestigious houses of both Black and le Fay will continue to exist through you is such a joyous thing. There is so much history within your blood, Miss Black, that you must learn at the earliest opportunity! It is a crime, perhaps even an Azkaban offense, that your heritage has been _concealed_ from you! You, the last Black and perhaps even the very last le Fay! A crime I say!"

"That is exactly what brings us to your esteemed office, Marcellus," Lucius smoothly interjected. Hermione had begun to worry Mr. Murdoch would wax eloquent all day about her family, so she breathed a subtle sigh of relief at the redirection.

"Yes, yes, of course! Please, sit!" He silently transfigured his desk into a rectangular table, and conjured two more chairs to draw up to the head placement. Despite his effervescent and almost vapid flattery, there could be no denial that the man was a talented, efficient wizard. Hermione was impressed by his evident skill as he summoned papers and a yellowed scroll from some hidden crevice, alongside a dagger from a velvet lined box. She had to restrain the very muggle urge to duck when the blade came zooming toward them, but it stopped neatly on the table.

"Miss Black, before you sit, let us go ahead and get the redundant blood test out of the way, shall we?" The portly wizard gestured for her hand, grabbing it with thick fingers to gently, ceremoniously prick her fingertip. "Excellent! Now, smear that finger right here across this parchment… fantastic, yes, that's a healthy bit right there, just perfect!"

The scroll now streaked with the bright red of her blood was clearly ancient. On the unrolled portion of the scroll, names were scrawled next to brown smears. Mr. Murdoch noticed her attention and explained, "Those are all the blood tests performed by Blacks before you, either when they were declared official Heirs or established as the Head of House. The last one was the blood test of Mistress Walburga Black, instating her as the official Head of House after her husband's unfortunate death. Before that, right there, is Orion Black, her husband and your grandfather."

Considering the thickness of the scroll, Hermione saw people were not exaggerating when they claimed her family name stretched back for centuries, if not a millennium or more. And she was now the last remaining bastion against extinction, excluding her disgraced and imprisoned father. Of course, the Black family had bred with every pureblood family in Britain, so the blood would go on. But unless she had children, the name would die with her, an ancient chain broken.

Mr. Murdoch completed the blood test ceremony, casting the spell that would magically compare her blood to the rest of the scroll. She held a breath when her blood began to shimmer, a niggling doubt taunting her that this entire fuss was some big, cosmic joke. What if she really wasn't a Black, and the books were wrong? Her looks were just a fluke? All of her planning, adjusting, choked politeness for nothing? She would have to return to Hogwarts, the humiliated almost-heir of the Blacks, just an uppity mudblood trying to ascend the social ladder.

She was the only that seemed to harbor a secret fear, for no one except herself closed her eyes in relief when the shimmer settled on solid gold before fading into a dried brown.

"Welcome to the family, officially," Lucius said, awkwardly patting her shoulder.

Narcissa embraced her, whispering, "It is good to know there is a smart, capable witch to carry on my family." Despite her surety that her cousin intended to use her for political gain, Hermione knew the words were sincere. Narcissa might be prejudiced and manipulative, but she was definitely a witch who valued her roots.

Draco, who Hermione had forgotten about, hesitantly stepped forward, looking to his parents for guidance. He finally made eye contact, his sharp face pinched with regret. Hermione believed he truly would not have raised a hand against her had he known they were possibly related. From her interactions with other Slytherin purebloods, she knew how highly they valued family. But she didn't let that belief blunt her anger with him. He should have avoided such drastic violence because she was his housemate, because the most important rule of Slytherin was to stick together. But he had chosen his prejudice over centuries of tradition. If the bond of being housemates had not protected her, then she would not let shared blood protect him.

However, she revised her revenge to become a more private matter. Slytherin upheld family loyalty, so publicly humiliating Draco would be counterproductive to her plans within her house. She would have to teach him a lesson in private. Marcus Flint she would destroy quite publicly; no blood relation protected him from her vengeance.

"It's good not to be alone," he said quietly. Like his mother, Hermione sensed the honesty of his words. It was something she would have to think about later.

Mr. Murdoch clapped Hermione heartily on the shoulder, nearly breaking decorum, judging by the way Narcissa's soft smile tightened. "Not a surprise at all! You're the spitting image of your cousin, Mrs. Lestrange! Except for those glorious eyes of yours, of course, but I've heard through department gossip that those are a famous le Fay trait. Of course, we can do _that_ blood test after these papers are all in order."

Excitement over for the moment, the group all sat at the transfigured table. Hermione and Lucius sat on either side of the official, Draco and his mother taking the other two seats next to them.

The next hour was a blur as the Black witch signed and noted countless Ministry documents transferring her title and assets to her. Much to the combined pride and impatient frustration of the Malfoys, Hermione insisted on thoroughly reading every single paper. Mr. Murdoch was thrilled to answer each of her detailed questions at length whenever she read a confusing line of legal jargon.

"Mr. Murdoch, what if some properties and assets were claimed by other families or liquidated by the Ministry? I assume both happened when my, uh, father was imprisoned." Eventually, she would get used to referring to Sirius Black as her father, for the sake of situations where it wasn't prudent to refer to Daniel Granger as her father.

The department head stuttered in obvious surprise. "Well, Miss Black-"

"Those will be returned to me, yes? After all, even though the Ministry didn't know there was another heir at the time of my father's imprisonment, the Decree of 1648, also known as the Inheritance Law, states that the Ministry and/or any other houses cannot claim assets of any kind should the last known blood born descendant of a house be deemed unfit due to death or lifelong imprisonment in Azkaban, _until_ twenty years have passed without the official instatement of a new Head of House."

Mr. Murdoch's mustache quivered in distress. "Why, Miss Black-"

"Of course, twenty years certainly have not passed. I believe it has been only around, say, a little under twelve since my father entered Azkaban? Since I have now been recognized by the foremost Ministry official on public records as the official Head of House Black, I am well within my rights to have _all_ of my assets rightfully returned to me."

While Mr. Murdoch gaped silently, Hermione thanked whatever gods watched over her that she had taken notes on that random tidbit from Professor Binns's droning lectures.

Lucius grinned like a shark and tapped his cane. "Well, Marcellus? Answer Miss Black's question."

Mr. Murdoch's gusty exhalation gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. "You are correct, of course. I will have to speak to the Minister himself, as I believe the Ministry liquidated the contents of your father's personal vault immediately after his arrest. I know Gringotts wouldn't allow the seizure of the Black's family vault, so rest assured, that will not be replaced."

"Lucky for the Ministry that the goblins refused," she replied lightly, "I'm sure the family vault would have been very difficult to replace. I have heard it is extremely valuable."

The official toyed absently with a gold button on his vest, belying his anxiety. Hermione half worried he would twist the button off and destroy the structural integrity of the vest, releasing the straining wall of flesh from its pinstriped prison.

"Do not worry, Marcellus," Lucius silkily joined, "I will accompany you to the Minister's office myself, to explain the unsettling overextension of Ministry powers. Our society has laws like the decree in place for reasons such as this, does it not?"

Turning pale beneath grey whiskers, Mr. Murdoch was swift to agree. "Of course, of course! There must have been an error, made by a dimwitted secretary in another department, I'm sure," he said, quick to deflect blame.

"Of course," Lucius agreed. The predatory grin had not left his face. Hermione realized that this was Lucius in his element: subtly threatening and maneuvering Ministry officials to obtain his goals. It was hard for her to imagine that maybe he had once been like his son, snobbish and inelegant. There was a world of difference between a school bully and a political predator.

"Would you mind summoning the documents detailing the exact assets claimed by other houses or the Ministry, including an itemized list of the contents of Sirius's vault?" Narcissa politely inquired, joining her husband in the slaughter.

The rotund wizard hastened to scrawl the request and send it off with a wave, the paper airplane slipping through the door's crack before rocketing off on its mission.

"While we wait on those papers, which will be enlightening, I am sure, let's finish this process," Lucius suggested.

"Of course, of course," Mr. Murdoch chortled awkwardly, trying to regain his ease. "Just a few more things to sign, and everything will be in order!"

The other documents described the assets being returned to her from entities that had already given them up, such as business holdings. Some assets had been tied up in bureaucratic red tape for as long as Sirius had been in Azkaban. So far, she had been released three properties: a townhome in London located at Grimmauld Place; a chateau in France, which had been kept by a Black-affiliated share in accordance with the Decree of 1648; and a villa in Greece, which had been kept by a different share for the same reasons. Also released to her was the Black family vault, which she happened to know firsthand was not maintained by any Ministry actions, despite what the document claimed, and was actually managed by the goblins. She imagined it would absolutely gall the goblins to know the Ministry had claimed their own actions were releasing the vault to her.

"Since you aren't of age, you can't claim your Wizengamot seat just yet, so we can skip this paper," the official advised, removing the pertinent document from the stack. "And of course, your company shareholders and business associates, who have been very excited to learn of your existence, will meet with you themselves to go over anything they need you to sign."

"Those meetings will occur later this week in privacy at the Manor," Lucius informed.

"Excellent, wonderful," Mr. Murdoch gushed. "Then I believe that is all!" He gathered the papers and straightened them with a dramatic flourish. "Since your request has yet to be answered, we can begin the official recognition of your le Fay House." With a wand wave, he summoned even more documents, along with another scroll.

The scroll for the le Fay blood test was even more ancient looking than the Black scroll. The nicked edges of the parchment were outlined in gold leaf. While she had been nervous about the first blood test, she only felt collected confidence this time around. After all, the beast prowling inside her ribcage recognized the wild power of Morgan le Fay's blood rushing in and out of her beating heart.

"There has not been a recognized Head of House for the le Fay family in centuries I believe, so the Decree of 1648 no longer applies," Mr. Murdoch said while he pricked her finger once more. "Any assets from a house believed extinct for so long have been absorbed into other houses, and I am afraid are unrecoverable. Should the blood test confirm you are a direct descendent, only protected holdings will be released to you, should any exist."

"I understand," she answered, smearing her finger on the potion treated scroll. She could feel everyone in the room leaning in curiously as Mr. Murdoch cast the final spell of the ceremony. She suddenly realized that no one present truly believed the portrait's claims. What was the likelihood that the nearly extinct Most Ancient and Noble House of Black would be resurrected by a witch who was also the last heir of the mythically infamous witch Morgan le Fay? The convergence of the Black and le Fay lines was like the plot of same fantasy novelist: perhaps an interesting theory, but impossible to believe as fact. Likely, everyone had held their tongues on their own thoughts to humor her, on the small chance the portrait had been correct.

The red smear began to glimmer, and then turned to solid gold.

Identity confirmed, Mr. Murdoch returned the scroll and dagger to their proper places. The room was heavy with surprise and disbelief, even though the proof had just been magically evidenced for all to see. Narcissa gathered herself first.

"Well," said, the word falling from her lips like a stone, "you are certainly a special witch, Astarte."

Hermione didn't bother to correct her cousin, even though the woman knew better than to call her that. She was almost growing used to adults blatantly ignoring her chosen name in favor of the traditionalist Black name.

"Special and rare indeed," her husband added, inspecting Hermione even more closely than he had that morning. His eyes lingered on her own, not to invite serious eye contact, but in a detached way that let Hermione know he was inspecting the color of her irises. He was probably changing his assumption that the startling shade of gold was a muggle fluke to what was clearly the truth: her eyes were her direct physical inheritance of the le Fay line.

"Only a few papers to sign this time, since there isn't much to transfer," Mr. Murdoch said, offering her the quill. "Everything's the same as the Black papers, including that you can't yet assume your Wizengamot seat. Other than that, the only difference is this document," he slid a paper to her, "which releases into your possession the le Fay vault, the only remaining asset of your house."

The documents were quickly in order and placed atop the Black papers. Mr. Murdoch put the stack in a folder, which magically vanished when he tapped it with his wand. "The folders are charmed to immediately appear in the filing room to be put away, unless of course you ever need to access those files, in which case you can request an official document review from the Ministry," he informed. "Now that that's all taken care of, you can go and-"

The expedient entrance of an airplane halted his words. Huffing at the interruption, he grabbed the plane from the air and unfolded it to read the contents. His face immediately lost its color once more.

"My request, I assume?" Narcissa asked sweetly.

With a defeated sigh, Mr. Murdoch nodded. Hermione had zero doubts he had been keen to escape the predatory presence of the Malfoys, and perhaps even her, as her own observations had played a part in his obvious interest in escape. She didn't want to flatter her arrogance, but she didn't doubt her own words would have the man twiddling his vest's button for hours to come.

The official reluctantly gave the documents over for Hermione and the Malfoys to read. She was very curious to learn which families had tried to claim the Black wealth for themselves, in however small a portion. She also wondered at just how much the Ministry had obtained from her father's vault. A part of her hoped that the galleons they had stolen had at least been put to good use, rather than lining some politician's pockets.

The Notts had claimed the art pieces and historical artefacts the Black family had loaned to any museums, citing a distant relation with Arcturus Black II through a third cousin. The Bulstrodes had claimed a French distillery for elven wine, citing relation by marriage through fourth cousins, 130 years ago, despite the union producing no children. The Greengrasses had assumed the Black shares of St. Mungo's Hospital, and also now helmed the Black seat on several charitable causes, citing relation through an illegitimate child born from an extramarital affair of Orion Black III and Guinevere Greengrass that occurred 413 years ago. The MacMillans, who Hermione remembered had penned her an extremely snide letter welcoming her to the wizarding world, had claimed a lucrative mining operation for opaline salt, an expensive ingredient key to creating pensieves and storing memories, by citing emotional distress and irreparable harm caused by the Black family reneging on a marriage contract that had been proposed 347 years ago. The contract had been voided when the intended MacMillan man had eloped with another wizard. Finally, the value of Sirius Black's personal vault, which had been happily confiscated by the Ministry and doled out to several department heads and one undersecretary, fully amounted to 700,000 galleons worth, enough to keep a wizarding family comfortably wealthy for a century.

"This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever read in my life," Hermione burst out, unable to contain herself at the preposterous lengths these families had gone to in an effort to leech off her family's wealth. "The degree of relation between me and the first three families is so tenuous as to be negligible! And the MacMillan claim doesn't even have a drop of blood to back it, just hurt feelings over something that happened 347 years ago! Not to mention that the Ministry divided my father's _personal vault_ amongst themselves!"

Lucius managed to contain himself from such an emotional outburst since he had been perfectly aware of the families' financial scheming, but also questioned the legality of the asset seizures to support Hermione. "None of these claims are legitimate enough to be granted by the Ministry. Yet, the Ministry chose to go forward, outright ignoring the Inheritance Decree. Tell me," Lucius leaned forward, eyes glittering with malice, "who did all of these houses bribe to have these claims honored?"

From what Hermione had heard of school gossip, she knew Lucius was acting the hypocrite, since Ministry officials all over the departments were deep in his pocket. However, she couldn't complain when he threatened to expose corruption for her sake. She noted that he didn't mention Sirius Black's vault being ransacked and wondered what that meant. For now, she would take what help she could get in reclaiming her lost assets from pureblood families. Those families would respect Lucius Malfoy's requests long before they ever acknowledged her own.

"Now, now Mr. Malfoy, I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation for this, this clear violation of the law, absolutely _repugnant_ disregard for common decency, really!" Mr. Murdoch was quick to defend, with much stuttering.

"Some oversight of the Ministry allowed these clearly illegal forfeitures of Miss Black's family property," the Malfoy patriarch stated. "I want to know the names of everyone involved in passing these documents without flagging them for illegitimate asset claim. I expect the list by owl no later than midmorning, Marcellus."

"Of course! Of course, Mr. Malfoy, I'll devote the rest of my day to the task!"

"You have kept my wife and the children long enough, Marcellus. You and I will go see the Minister right now to discuss illegally seized and liquidated assets." Lucius turned to his wife, dismissing the nerve-wracked wizard. "I am afraid I will not make our lunch plans. It seems something has come up that requires my attention."

"No worry," Narcissa said charmingly, allowing him to kiss her knuckles in goodbye. "We will manage well enough on our own to make a Gringotts withdrawal and do some shopping."

The auror, who had remained silent during the hours long exchange, followed Narcissa, Draco, and Hermione back to the lifts, leaving Marcellus Murdoch to endure the wrath of Lucius alone. Hermione pitied the man. He was one of the only adults she had met so far that she felt wanted only to genuinely help her, not use her for political gain.

"That was certainly eventful," the blonde witch sighed. "The poor Minister is going to catch an earful for this, I'm afraid. Lucius has never dealt well when the transgression is against family."

Hermione rolled her eyes when she was claimed as family, uncaring if anyone saw. "If you're my closest relative, why didn't you claim anything?" she asked, voicing what she had been wondering since she read that ridiculous document. While it listed the sins of pureblood families she recognized, the famously conniving Malfoys had been conspicuously absent.

"It didn't matter. Through me, Draco would have inherited everything once twenty years passed. There was no need to engage in the petty competition when in eight years, everything could be reclaimed by us anyway," she answered frankly.

Hermione preferred the honesty over what she had expected: a flowery exposition on not descending to immoral manipulations for material wealth. She supposed she was becoming rather cynical in how she expected the Malfoys to act, but she couldn't help herself. Their son had planned to grievously hurt her and nearly killed her in the process. She was entitled to distrust them, and the society they helmed.

Suddenly remembering her earlier inquiry, Hermione turned to the auror. "What are the names of all the aurors who helped against the crowd?"

When posed with a direct question that couldn't be answered by a nod or head shake, the stoic auror spoke. "Aurors Kingsley, Mayfields, Smith, MacDonnell, and Tonks."

"Is it possible for me to thank them in person, before we leave?"

He blinked in surprise. "Yes, I can take you to them."

"Is that a good idea?" Narcissa asked hurriedly. "Surely, the aurors are too busy to speak to us."

He gave her a look Hermione could not decipher. She got the sudden feeling that there was something she did not know. "They will make time," the auror replied. "It is little trouble."

Narcissa pursed her lips in unhappiness. _Whatever it was that got under her skin must be a big deal to cause her future wrinkles_ , Hermione thought to herself.

Quickly, the auror stopped the lift on the floor housing the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was much less hectic that the other department, populated only by stern looking men and women, walking at clipped paces to wherever they were ordered. The auror escort led the group to a set of five aurors that were clustered around a magical recording. Once she got closer, Hermione realized the recording was of earlier, when the crowds had gotten so raucous that aurors had stepped in.

"—should have moved out of this adjoining Flu room also, to cover the bulging side of these reporters here," a redheaded man said, gesturing to a group of rowdy reporters with the tip of his wand. "Containment would have been more efficient if an actual scuffle had started."

Hermione was impressed. The aurors were going over the recording to see what they could have done better to learn improvements for crowd control. As soon as she stepped closer to inspect the recording herself, the five aurors whipped around.

She hardly had time to react to their quick movements before her escort ordered them to stand down. "She has something to say," he explained, gesturing for her to talk.

Slightly nervous at the rapt attention each auror was giving her, she tugged at a wild curl. "I wanted to thank each of you personally for helping me and, uh, the Malfoys. Earlier, that is."

At her soft thanks, each auror relaxed. "It's our duty, ma'am," a tall, dark skinned auror told her. His deep voice resonated through her bones, authoritative yet calming.

The other three men nodded in agreement, but the woman caught her eye. Her bright pink hair shifted wildly to purple and back again, leaving Hermione gaping in shock.

Of course, Hermione had read about metamorphmagus abilities, but seeing it was quite something! She wanted to ask endless questions, but doubted the woman had the time or inclination to act as study subject.

"I'm Tonks," the woman introduced proudly. Her auror badge gleamed brightly, as if Tonks was brand new to the ranks. She winked at Hermione, leaning close to whisper conspiratorially, "But anyone in the family can call me Dora."

Hermione blinked in confusion, distantly registered Narcissa's hand clasping her shoulder sharply. "We must go now," her blonde cousin demanded.

"Wait," Hermione said, looking at Tonks, seeking to look behind the pink hair.

"This is my natural face," Tonks announced, facial features crunching and hair dulling to a mousy brown. Her nose was sharp, freckles spattered over her cheekbones. It was the eyes that caught and held Hermione's attention—they were large and almond shaped, crowned by arched brows.

"Are we related?" Hermione questioned. She saw those eyes and brows, save for the color, in the mirror each day.

"You haven't told her about my mom, have you?" Tonks demanded of Narcissa, suddenly angry. Her hair flickered wildly between red and black. "She deserves to know all of her family, not just you lot!"

"I was not disowned, so I was the logical choice," Narcissa answered stiffly. "If you are so concerned for her, why didn't you or Andromeda come to Hogwarts when the news broke? I was there within hours to meet my cousin and welcome her into the family."

Hermione's mind was whirling at the implications. "Are we related?" she asked again, this time impatiently.

"I'm your cousin too," Tonks answered, glaring at Narcissa. "My mum is Andromeda Tonks nee Black, this woman's sister."

Hermione recalled Dumbledore's casual comments in his office. She had brushed aside his question because she had been impatient, and now she realized that action had been to her detriment.

"Unfortunately," Narcissa broke in, unwilling to let Tonks control the narrative, "my sister was blasted off the Black family tree, making her ineligible to be your legal guardian. If she had wished to contest my guardianship, she could have come to Hogwarts herself. I was there the moment I received word you had awoken. I had even wished to introduce to your true heritage myself, but the headmaster beat me to it."

Tonks's twisted her face and opened her mouth for a rebuttal, but was silenced with a wand wave from the auror escort. "This is certainly a matter for later conversation," he said, his gaze fixed on the wayward auror. Tonks blushed, but set her jaw in indignation at being silenced. It was apparent to Hermione that the young auror was a spitfire, but Tonks clearly valued her career enough to let the subject drop. However, Hermione sensed it wasn't the last she would hear from the technicolor witch.

"I agree wholeheartedly, Auror Banks," Narcissa nodded. "Nymphadora," she said the name with a palpable amount of distaste, "if your mother has any objections, she can contact the appropriate Ministry officials. Now, I must insist on going. We have things to do before the day is done."

With a quick smile thrown Tonks's way, Hermione hastened to follow the Malfoys back to the lift, leaving the circle of bemused aurors behind. She had no choice at the moment but to follow Narcissa, but she would certainly look into everything that had been said. Was it true that Auror Nymphadora Tonks was her cousin? Why had Andromeda Tonks been disowned? Why was Narcissa trying to conceal the rest of the Black family, disowned or not? Her curiosity prickled her, but the time for research and brainstorming was later. She had a list burning a hole in her pocket, demanding completion. As soon as things settled, she would make a new list of goals, and society would shiver when she achieved them.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hey ya'll, sorry it's been a hot minute. I have a lot written, so be ready for some quick updates. This story is about to severely diverge from canon as I include and expand on Celtic and Harry Potter lore. Let me know how ya'll like it and what ya'll think! Reviews always make my day, especially from my regulars :) ya'll know who you are. It's ya'll that I'm thinking about when I'm up at four a.m. planning this plot.**

Hermione spent two hours wrangling the goblins again, who were none too pleased to see her back at Gringotts so soon. However, as the officially instated heir to the Black and le Fay houses, they had no legal recourse to prevent her from entering her vaults. She wasn't happy that Narcissa and Draco would be sharing her first glimpse into the secrets of her family history, but there was nothing she could do about it. They had stuck to her side like burrs since leaving the Ministry. She suspected the meeting with the extended family would have had Narcissa bristling if she had fur. That had certainly not been part of the woman's plans to raise Hermione within the fold of the Malfoy family.

"There," Grifvindurk growled as the Black vault swung open once more. "Hurry up, the le Fay vaults are far away and I have important matters to attend to."

Narcissa curled a delicate lip in a sneer. While she was perfectly polite to most witches and wizards, her manners failed her when confronted by rude magical creatures. "More important than attending the most powerful girl in Britain? I think not."

He bared his teeth and said unfriendly things in Gobbledygook. Hermione hid a smile at his thunderous expression and entered the vault.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks.

She knew her newfound family had money, but the sight before her rendered her speechless. Towering stacks of galleons, an array of ancient weapons, countless bejeweled adornments, and an endless shelf neatly packed with rare books. She could hardly believe her eyes at the centuries' worth of accumulated wealth available at her disposal.

"Well," Narcissa said after a beat of silence. "You will never want for much, Astarte. This is not even counting the considerable assets being returned to your name as we speak."

Draco was still staring wide eyed at the treasure. "Bloody hell," he whispered, "is that a first edition broom?"

"Language!" Narcissa snapped, but Draco had already turned pleading eyes on his former nemesis, ignoring his mother entirely.

"May I please look at it, Heir Black?" he asked, using her formal title, perhaps to enter her good graces. It was ineffective, but smart, to treat her with respect. She already knew what he was capable of.

Hermione looked at the contraption he was entranced by. She had absolutely no interest in flying, having had a decidedly bad time during the one practice she had attended with Madam Hooch. The broom before her was leant up against the wall like refuse, not an ancient artifact. Honestly, if she hadn't seen Draco's reaction, she would have assumed it was just trash or some odd broom goblins used to clean the vaults. It looked like nothing more than a slightly crooked pine tree branch, down to the evergreen needles interspersed in haphazard tufts at its end. It barely resembled the current models, which were streamlined and more resembled Middle Age cleaning brooms than branches. Although, she considered, the branch looked as though it had just been shorn from the tree, despite how old it undoubtedly was. No normal broom would look like a pine bough, and if she understood the goblins at all, she sincerely doubted they cared after her vault so well as to regularly trim trees for new brooms.

An idea came to her, and she smiled. "You can have it, actually. You and all of Slytherin knows I have no interest in Quidditch."

His eyes nearly popped out of his skull, but he didn't need to be told twice. He hurried over to the glorified tree branch and began to inspect it reverently.

"That is very kind and generous of you, Astarte," her cousin said. Narcissa's voice was deceptively gracious, but Hermione knew she was suspicious of the sudden change in behavior.

"There is no benefit to maintaining a quarrel with family," Hermione said pleasantly. "After all, he will find much more enjoyment in it than I ever would."

The witch smiled happily, not at all trusting of Hermione's explanation. "I knew you were clever, dear girl. I always wanted a daughter."

Struck dumb by her cousin's casual remark, Hermione could only blink. Then she steeled herself, remembering that it was this woman and her husband's callous disregard of others that had instilled such values in their son that he would torture a twelve-year old classmate. The beast prowled behind her ribs and bared its teeth in agreement. Besides, Hermione already had a mother she loved dearly, despite the secrets she kept.

Unable to form a response to the older witch, Hermione chose to tactfully smile and change the subject. "How many galleons will I need for my errands? And what should I take with me from this vault back to school?"

Narcissa allowed the redirection and began to educate Hermione on expected expenses. As she talked, the young witch realized that for all her planning, she still had a lot to learn about the pureblood world. She added a mental note to her check list: find library books on typical finances and investments in the wizarding world. It was dry material, but the knowledge would no doubt aid her, especially considering the hefty investments in her name and being reclaimed from other families, thanks to Lucius Malfoy. She definitely needed to know more if she was ever to understand her family finances. The less she had to depend on the Malfoys, the better.

"Other than galleons, you will also need several pieces of traditional Black jewelry to remind others of who you are, should they dare forget," Narcissa continued. She led Hermione to a wide case of glass, the shallow trough coated in black velvet. Precious stones and polished metals beckoned her eyes from one piece to the next. "Something that clearly shows your status, but is not too gaudy for daily wear. Let's see…." Her pale fingers drifted over the glittering array.

"What about this one?" Hermione asked as her eyes caught on an attractive piece.

Narcissa reached into the glass and plucked the bracelet from its velvet bed. Hermione poked the glass surface, curiosity piqued by how her digit slid into the glass and out the other side.

"It's spelled to only allow those of Black blood to reach inside," Narcissa explained. "Gringotts has never been robbed, but our family is exceedingly cautious anyway. Anyone not of our line would be burned terribly if they tried to steal from beneath the glass."

Hermione added another mental note to research the spells used on the glass. If she could key it to her le Fay blood rather than her Black blood, no one at school would be able to touch her things. She frowned. Assuming no other le Fays were out and about. Secret heirs seemed to be a theme.

"You have a good eye for taste," Narcissa complimented. "This is perfect for what you need."

The bracelet was tiny and dainty, but elegantly glamorous. Small emeralds and diamonds dotted a thin band of silver that coiled into the shape of a snake. The eyes were sulfurous citrine stones. It fit perfectly on her wrist, tightening itself magically so it would never come loose. Hermione tilted her wrist back and forth, watching the way the light hit the snake's eyes and lit the yellow stones from within. "This is the most Slytherin thing I've seen all day," she murmured to herself.

Her comment startled a laugh from her guardian. "Yes, well, we snakes have house pride," Narcissa smirked. "I can't imagine a badger working half as well as a snake when it comes to jewelry."

Hermione smiled despite herself, agreeing. The sinuous coil of gemstones on her wrist was an enchanting reminder of her lineage and house.

"You will also need a signet ring. It's traditional for the male heir to wear it, but having a sole female heir has happened before in other houses, so I have no doubt there will be a finer, more feminine version of that for you," Narcissa said, pointing at a clunky ring bearing the family crest.

"What if I had one made, instead?" Hermione questioned. "Something to combine the Black and le Fay houses. A personal signet ring."

"An interesting idea," Narcissa admitted. "However, that will take a week or two to request and receive. Until then, this should do."

Hermione eyed the dark silver ring warily. It certainly wasn't attractive, but it would do for a short period of time. She slid the ring onto her hand, rubbing a thumb over the skull wreathed in ivy. She would get her own signet as soon as possible.

"Anything formal can remain here, safe and guarded, until you have need. Next thing you need is an ancestral token, something that isn't jewelry. A vivid connection to your ancestry would be helpful if anyone gave you trouble over this whole mess. Draco himself took a token to school, and no one doubts his blood anyway."

"What did he bring?" Hermione asked curiously.

Her cousin scoffed. "His father insisted he choose a stamp with one of their ancestor's initials. It is acceptable, but useless. They are not his initials so he can't use it to create a wax seal. There was a perfectly nice handkerchief made of silk from several hundred years ago with the Malfoy crest embroidered in a corner, but no, Lucius insisted."

Hermione was slightly surprised at receiving the story in response. She was also surprised at how much it humanized the Malfoy family. But she wouldn't let herself be drawn in. The beast demanded its due, snapping its jaws. She tapped her chest at the burning sensation that evoked.

Draco, his attention so taken that he never looked up at the mention of him, lovingly coaxed the ancient broom into the air as the pair of women wandered around the huge vault, trying to find an item Narcissa deemed appropriate. Finally, Narcissa spotted the perfect token.

"Is this Celtic?" Hermione asked curiously, gazing into the bronze mirror. It was obviously primitive, but the metal shone as if it had been made hours ago rather than thousands of years ago. She held it by the handle, which was engraved with a creeping pattern of blooming and wilting flowers.

"Yes," Narcissa said proudly. "The Black family has been in the British Isles since before the Romans. Black blood is only younger than the bloodlines of le Fay, Merlin, which is extinct, and perhaps Slytherin."

The surface of the mirror began to cloud as Hermione stared into it, and Narcissa inhaled and quickly snatched it from her grasp. Suddenly bereft, the young witch frowned. She had had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if the mirror had something important to show her.

"Be careful of this mirror," her cousin cautioned, sliding it into the velvet bag they had found it in. "It is a famous historical artifact, created by our ancestor Andromechus Black, to show the true nature of any who looked into it. Everyone believes it lost to time, but it appears it has been hiding in the Black vault all along." Narcissa looked disturbed.

"Historically important and supposedly lost? It's perfect for a token," Hermione said, itching to get her hands back on the mirror. "Also, something like that would prove too interesting for any Slytherin to ignore, if I want to form ties." She felt desperate. She would use any excuse to look into the bronze surface and see what it wanted to show her.

Narcissa shook her head, appearing shaken. Her fingers were barely touching the bag, as if afraid to be too close to the mirror. "What the mirror reveals is never what the bearer wants or expects, Astarte. It has driven those who looked into it mad. We will find you something else."

Hermione watched longingly as her cousin placed the velvet bag containing the mirror back among the pile of historical artifacts. She could sense the older witch wouldn't budge on her final decisions, so she would have to return later to look into it and assuage the tug in her soul.

They located another acceptable token, a small yet ornate tapestry, no more than a foot by foot square, which Hermione knew would look nice hung above her nightstand in her dorm. It was a depiction of her great-great-great-great aunt Elladora Black, who she admired for never marrying and devoting her life to academic pursuits. The stern woman had taught defense at Hogwarts for decades, and had invented and patented the blood replenishing potion after a mishap in one of her classes led to a student's near demise. She had the same hair and nose as Hermione.

Narcissa then allowed Hermione to also grab a few tomes, although she insisted the girl also take the ancient book of her family's history along as well. Hermione would have chosen it anyway, but she let her cousin think she was happily following orders.

The three left the vault and were angrily escorted by Grifvindurk across the enormous underground cavern of Gringotts to the le Fay vault. It was hidden in a gloomy, forgotten nook, bordered by vaults that were so ancient their crests were impossible to distinguish. The age of the vaults was obvious also because of the rough-hewn stone around them, the jagged cuts visible. All other caverns had much smoother stone as goblin technology and technique evolved.

"That one there is yours," Executive Grifvindurk gestured. "I don't have a key for it. It can only be opened when you willingly sacrifice your own blood."

Daunted, but ultimately unsurprised by the precautions her ancestor had taken, Hermione allowed Narcissa to use a slicing hex on her palm and then pressed her hand to the vault door. The thick grime immediately melted away to reveal the full glory of the le Fay family crest. A rampant dragon and griffin viciously held their talons to strike each other over a shield dominated solely by a silver crown. The door opened silently under its own power, and Hermione and the Malfoys entered it, hushed by burning curiosity.

The vault was all that remained for her to inherit, as the monetary aspect of Morgan le Fay's holdings had been distributed long ago when no one was able to claim the bounty of the vault by blood. However, Hermione decided, what had been left to her was infinitely more precious.

The vault had some sort of charm at work that made it much larger than the laws of reality allowed, for stretching back into an infinity until shadows kept it from her sight, was a magnificent library. Hermione was so consumed by the view of endless shelves of tomes and scrolls, and she believed stone tablets on one side, that she missed what held Narcissa and Draco's immediate attention.

"Merlin," Narcissa breathed, holding a trembling hand to her breast. She and her son were staring in complete disbelief at a glass case, lit silver by a mysterious source, in the front of the cavernous room.

Within the glass case was a wand.

"That can't be Morgan le Fay's wand," Draco argued. "It's been thousands of years! I thought Merlin destroyed it."

"Legend says he burned it with Fiendfyre to keep another dark witch from rising to challenge him," Hermione explained, "but history is written by the winners, and they love to skew facts."

"What do we do with it?" Draco questioned. "It's got to be powerful."

Hermione sliced her golden eyes to him. "What do _I_ do with it, you mean?" she asked. "It belonged to my ancestor, whether or not it is the wand of lore."

"Her wand was used to create black spells, you can't just have it!" Draco argued.

"Let her do as she wishes," Narcissa cautioned her son. "It is her birthright. What occurs in this vault does not leave this family."

Hermione was suspicious that she was so willing to allow her to regain a wand, but she didn't ask or argue. It was as if a fog had blurred her thoughts as soon as she saw the wand. Her normal faculties were dulled, consumed by her hands burning itch to touch the slim length of wood.

She stepped forward and had to resist the urge to bow to the wand, as though it were a sentient object that demanded respect. Morgan le Fay's wand, according to research, had been made of two woods. The outer shell had been ebony wood, well matched for combative magic and transfiguration, carved with twining thorns. The inner wood was yew, a wood notorious for immense power. The most infamous aspect of the wand, however, was the core. It was rumored to eschew all known wand-making techniques. The legends claimed the wand core was three strands of hair gifted to Morgan le Fay by the warrior goddess of old, Badb. Badb was a Celtic deity known for shapeshifting. She held dominion over life and death, wisdom and inspiration. Her hair would have been ideal for a dark witch to draw power from.

A strange weight fell over Hermione, the fog over her mind receding to the sides until all she could see was the wand. She had the feeling something unfathomably old had just opened its eyes for the first time in eons to look directly at her. Magical kind no longer worshipped the old gods and goddesses, but Hermione felt an otherworldly power place cold hands on her shoulders and push her forward.

Someone, or some _thing_ , wanted her to grab the wand.

In a trance, Hermione reached into the glass case. The glass allowed her left hand, the witch's hand, to slide through, just as the Black vault's case had done. Her cut palm curved firmly around the embellished handle, and the black wood soaked up her blood greedily. She withdrew the wand from its prison of thousands of years.

The moment the ancient wand had fully left the case, the temperature plummeted. The trio's breath frosted the air as the tip of the wand shot black lightning at its former prison. The glass case shattered. A cool voice, holding the screams of thousands, chuckled darkly.

" _Well met, Morrigan,_ " the voice whispered, sliding around Hermione's ears like the dry scrape of a sword cleaving bone.

Her vision blacked, and she was no longer in the vault.


	15. Chapter 15

**Wow, look! An update! So this chapter is a huge plot point. Some of ya'll may love it; some of ya'll may abandon my story, never to return. I want to create something unique, so if you are here to read something unique, then don't attack me for doing something different that you may not like. If you like it, I beg of you: give me a review. I'm dying for some feedback on this chapter specifically. Hermione's going to become increasingly OC after this point, so be prepared for that as well. She is not a nice girl.**

 **Also, it's finally time- some people have been bothered by how the Malfoys are getting away with so much. That won't last. In fact, this chapter is the starting point, so pay attention.**

 **I love reading the reviews where people say "i just found this and didn't expect anything good..." etc etc. It's pretty funny to read that. My goal is to write something I would want to read; if ya'll enjoy it so much, that's a huge plus. I love surprising people as well, so reviews like this really make me smile.**

 **As always, thanks for reading! Don't forget to drop a comment on what ya'll think of this chapter. Enjoy!**

Waves crashed against the cliff side, pounding inexorably against pale stone. The sea was grey, the sky black with storm. It should have been too dark to see, yet the woman standing no more than three feet away emitted a dark glow, easily visible. She illuminated the many swords that were stuck in the ground around her, point first, each one different. Some were ancient, rusted with old age, while others shone silver. They were all crusted with blood. Some of them dripped, as though they had just dealt fresh wounds moments before. The light gleamed on others strangely, and Hermione realized they were blades of bone.

"This is my garden," the woman said. Her voice held both the screams of the dying and the absolute silence of the dead. "Nothing grows here but death."

"Who are you?" Hermione asked. There was a fine tremor in her hand, which she belatedly realized was still clasped around Morgan le Fay's wand. The wand grounded her, reminding her that she was not powerless, despite the obvious danger.

The woman smiled. Her eyeteeth had been filed to points. Or perhaps she had been born that way? Hermione did not know which thought unnerved her more.

"I am Badb."

Hermione stilled, her breath freezing in her lungs. Gods and goddesses were not supposed to be real. They had been worshiped centuries upon centuries ago, but religion had fallen out of fashion with the advent of Christianity. Yet, once, Hermione had also believed magic to be a myth. Were goddesses really much further out of the realm of belief? She could not deny the cold breeze on her skin or the crushing presence of the woman before her. The so-called goddess exuded so much power that Hermione's hair crackled reflexively in an accidental display of nerves.

In the few stories Hermione had read on Badb, back when she had been on a mythology kick several years ago, the warrior goddess had looked like a crone. But the woman was tall, six feet or more, and wraith thin. A cloak of crow feathers swept her bare feet, clasped with ornate gold hooks beneath the hollow of her throat. Her black gown, the hem tattered and darkened with gore, revealed both of her skeletal legs through long slits that ended below the gold chain circling her middle. Gold coins dangled from the belt, embossed with images of wolves. Deep red hair fell in wild snarls to her hips, strung with tiny finger bones. Her headpiece was wrought in black metal, fashioned in the shape of talons that dug into her skin until gold blood beaded. Sensuous, full lips contrasted sharply with blade-like cheek bones and hollow temples. Those lips were curved in a cold smile that lit her irises. Her eyes were identical to Hermione's.

She extended a hand, the bones of her wrist in stark relief against porcelain skin, and tipped Hermione's chin up to examine her face. Frozen with consuming fear, the young witch did not dare to move. Badb was an apex predator lazily inspecting her newest meal. Hermione had never felt so aware of her own weaknesses and shortcomings.

Images rushed through her head. Bullies at her muggle school kicking her to the ground; ignorant teachers shaking their heads at her advanced intelligence, unable to nurture her intellect; Hogwarts students muttering about her status, disparaging her as a mudblood; McGonagall's disappointment at her sorting; Pansy waving as she disappeared into the dorms, leaving her to her fate; Marcus Flint's sneering face as he tortured her; her mother's disgust and fear when she discovered Hermione's bloodthirsty side.

She had to be like that! She had to be meaner than everyone else. Didn't her mother understand? She had to protect herself first. She hated the others for refusing to try to understand her. Their ignorance forced her to become the person she was, so ready to spill blood. She had needed to slice that girl's arm; the girl had been bigger and stronger, holding Hermione's face to the dirty floor as other girls stomped and kicked. The scissors had been barely out of reach, but they had skittered into her grasping fingers as if by magic.

The dull edge of the children's scissors had still cut to the bone when applied with enough force. The girl had screamed, recalling the teacher to the room filled with wild seven year olds. Hermione had been entranced by the cascading blood, seeping thickly from the girl's arm.

She tried to explain herself so many times. Her truths fell on deaf ears. "There is never an excuse to hurt another, Hermione," her mother had taught. But Hermione had not cared to learn lessons she knew to be false.

Emily Granger's blue eyes filled her vision. They watered with despair, as they had that fateful day. "You could have chosen compassion," her mother's voice said. "You should have chosen empathy."

Hermione's mouth twisted. "That is not who I am," she snarled at her mother. "I will not cower! I will not extend my forgiveness to those who choose to hurt me!"

Her mother's eyes began to leak tears. "My daughter is not so evil. She is not a killer."

"Not unless I need to be one," Hermione answered. She had no idea how to retort to being called evil. Was she evil? The thought did not bother her as she knew it should.

"Would you give up your magic to be good?" her mother whispered. "Would you give up being a witch to be pure and light?"

"Never!" Hermione screamed, horrified by the questions. She would never sacrifice her identity as a witch. She would choose to die before returning to her mundane life as a muggle. She had fought with blood and tears to prove her worth, to prove her devotion to being a witch. Her sacrifice had sealed a covenant within her soul, within the beast of her body. She would kill her mother by her own hand before giving up magic.

Suddenly, her mother's blue eyes dried and hardened. Between one blink and the next, they became gold. Laughter caused Hermione to open her eyes. She hadn't realized they had been closed.

Badb's talons, black and deadly sharp, pricked Hermione's jaw. "Delightful," she purred. "I expected nothing less."

"What was that?" Hermione asked, voice hoarse. Her heart thudded sluggishly, weak with the realization that she valued her magic over her own life, over her mother's life.

"I had to know if you were truly of my sister," Badb explained. "The eyes are only an indication of your nature. I needed to know if your soul was dark enough."

"Is it?" she questioned, although the answer was clear in Badb's unhidden glee. She could sense the truth, sliding through her veins like oil.

"It is abysmally black," the goddess laughed. "Now that I know for sure, it is time to educate you, dear sister."

"Sister?"

A loving expression was made horrifying by Badb's frail, lethal beauty. "Yes, we are sisters. Separate for eons, but reunited by fate."

"I'm not a goddess," Hermione croaked. Goddesses did not break beneath mortal men's kicks as she had.

"No," Badb agreed. "You are not. But you have the power of one. Come," she gestured to the cliff's edge. "Let us sit and watch the sea, and I will tell you our tale."

Hermione did not fear sitting so close to the dangerous edge. If Badb wanted her dead, she had much easier ways of doing it than shoving her over the side. Their lands dangled over empty air, Badb's bare feet soaked in blood. Hermione realized her feet were also bare to match, but they were pale and clean.

"There were once three of us," Badb began, her long hair coiled on the ground. "Macha was our third. Her hair was white as bone, lips black as old blood." The goddess's tone was sad and wistful. "She was glorious. Bloodthirsty and fierce. While we hold dominion over battle and death, she held sway over men. Oh, how she drew them to her like flies to honey! Only for the flies to become stuck, entombed to such sweet death."

"I believe you also hold some sway over men," Hermione said. She did not intend to flatter the goddess, her supposed sister. It was a simple truth; despite the caustic edge of her beauty, Badb would have no trouble attracting anyone who saw her.

The goddess laughed. "Yes, but her power was special. She sowed plight among wives and husbands, discord and envy. She reigned over battles of the heart." Badb's expression darkened, and fear once more trilled in Hermione's animal hindbrain. "Until she sought to bring the White Wizard to his knees."

"Merlin?" Hermione queried. She didn't know of any other who would count for such a title.

Badb hissed, "Yes! The man who knew her by her eyes and coveted her power. He gained her attention with great feats of magic, such as this isle had never seen before. Macha was always avaricious. A man such as he would have been an excellent meal for her voracious appetite. But he caught her as she was unguarded, never suspecting a lowly human to wield power against her. He sacrificed her and stole her power, and then began to hunt us as well, addicted to that which only a goddess can give."

Hermione was enraptured. Emotion such as Badb expressed could not be false; she felt it so deeply in her bones that Hermione began to become angry as well. Despair welled in her heart as she thought of white hair and gold eyes forever tarnished.

"He was unable to completely extinguish either of us, however, my sister. We learned from Macha's final mistakes," she growled. Her talons dug into the dry earth, and blood welled from the soil. Her narrow eyes were fixed on a point in the distance as she recounted the story, but Hermione's attention was rapt on her beautiful, angular face.

"How did you, _we_ , I suppose, escape his hunt?" she asked, her own hands digging into the ground beside Badb's. Her nails were pink and round, fingers like pale roots anchoring her to the strange dreamscape.

"Different ways," Badb answered. "I shed my physical body to escape him. It is why I no longer roam the isles to relish in death. My power is all contained within Avalon, the otherworld realm. Many of my kind retreated here when the groves were burned and the temples desecrated, but only I am unable to exit when summoned. I can only visit you in dreams."

Hermione caught the fact that Badb had implied there were other gods and goddesses still around, but she needed to know the rest of the story before she asked about the others. "What about me?"

"You, the Morrigan," Badb smiled. "Once called Anann, Morrigu, Phantom Queen, the Dragon of Erie, the Battle Goddess. You look exactly the same as you once did, excepting these useless nails and your dress." She tapped Hermione's hand with a finger. "What name do you claim now, sister?"

"Astarte Hermione Black," she responded.

"A good name," Badb nodded. "Not so good as your original, but good."

"You can call me whatever you want," Hermione offered.

Badb smiled, and the teeth were less frightening. "Anann, then. It is good to have you returned to me."

Hermione smiled back. Badb was absolutely terrifying, but every second spent in her presence made Hermione feel oddly welcome. As if she belonged next to the impressive death goddess.

"You were always the clever one," Badb continued their tale. "Macha was the most beautiful, and I was the one who all feared the most." She grinned again. "Of course, it was for good reason. I was always the hungriest. You were cunning. Supplicants knew you would not kill them out of petty entertainment, so many were drawn to your shrines. Merlin hunted you last, wary of you."

The goddess turned to look at Hermione. "I chose to give up my body before I let him have me. He used sigils of power drawn in the blood he spilled from Macha. He would have taken me for sport before he pillaged my power from my body. We are the patronesses of women. I would not cede myself to a man, even if it meant damning myself to eternal existence in Avalon with no physical body."

"So you can never have a real body again?" Hermione asked.

"We three sisters were bound in power," Badb explained, "so strong that should one turn on the other, it would break the laws binding reality. When the White Wizard used Macha's blood against me, it enabled me to forever destroy our ties. That is what saved you, and you were clever enough to take it another step further."

She turned her eyes back to the sea, the gold cold and desolate. "My physical destruction released a blast of power that resonated through all realms and lands. It rendered the power of Macha's blood to bind us inert. You harnessed my unleashed energy to bind yourself to the mortal coil, sacrificing immortality forever so Merlin would never again be able to claim godhood from one of us."

"You gave yourself up for me," Hermione whispered.

Badb turned her head once more. Their identical eyes held. "You would have for me," she said simply. "We would have for Macha. I simply had the opportunity first, so I took it. Alas, we were prideful. Arrogant. We would never have thought a mere mortal wizard could reduce us to fleeing across the isles, yet he did."

"So I became human?"

"Your soul stole the body of a babe and grew into a formidable witch. You founded a bloodline that lasted centuries and then vanished. Yet here you are once more," she smiled.

Hermione's eyes flew wide in understanding. "Morgan le Fay was the Morrigan!"

"You are Morgan le Fay," Badb laughed. "Reincarnated."

The wand in her hand grew warm as if it agreed with Badb, causing Hermione to consider a question.

"How does my wand core have your hairs if you gave up your physical body?" Hermione asked.

"I can gift you something as simple as hair from this realm," she answered, plucking several strands and pressing them into Hermione's palm to prove it. "I myself may not leave this world, however. My soul is bound eternally to Avalon, just as yours is to the mortal realm. You may visit me in dreams such as this, but you may never travel into Avalon without giving up something your mortal self values dearly, as all heroes must do."

"Will I ever become Anann again?"

Badb shook her head sadly. "You permanently removed yourself from goddesshood. You will be forever tied to the mortal coil, cycling through reincarnation. However, your soul is bound to your bloodline and the isles, just as we were once bound to these lands. Your family will never leave, never immigrate, as though they are chained to the earth. I will always watch over your family, seeking you out whenever the eyes appear once more."

"Am I the first reincarnate since Morgan?"

"Yes," she said, "and I am so glad to have found you again, Anann. So glad I will be able to relearn my sister. Avalon has been lonely."

Hermione considered Badb and her fierce countenance. Despite the power and confidence she exuded, the young witch could feel a hint of the deep sadness and loneliness. She decided she would do everything in her power to reconnect with her sister, to assuage the loneliness plaguing Badb.

"Our time draws short," Badb said, standing. "We will continue this later. Be strong, sister. I will watch you from this realm."

Hermione stood as well, brushing dirt from herself. Without thinking, she grabbed Badb in a tight hug, following a tug within her soul. The goddess froze, and then softened, curling her skeletal arms around Hermione's shoulders. Despite how frail she looked, Badb was unyielding within the embrace.

"It is good to have you back, Anann," she whispered, sounding very human for a moment. Hermione nodded. She had not known she was missing anything more from her life until Badb had hugged her back, but now her soul had settled. There was still a frozen corner reserved for Macha, echoing the coldness in Badb's heart where the third sister had once resided.

"It is good to be back, Badb," the young witch murmured.

Badb released her slowly and then tucked a wild black curl behind Hermione's ear, smiling fondly. "So similar, and yet so different," she murmured to herself. "But the eyes do not lie."

"A portrait of Morgan le Fay said something like that to me," Hermione shared wryly. "I didn't realize at the time that I was talking to a portrait of myself."

The goddess laughed, sharp teeth bared. "It is time for you to return, Anann. Tell no one of this."

Hermione nodded, and then the Cliffside disappeared, taking the goddess with it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As suddenly as it had come, the vision was gone. Hermione knew without asking that the Malfoys had not experienced what she had. The chill remained on her skin, a lingering kiss from the cold sea breeze.

Had that truly been the spirit of Badb? Were the legends true? Was what Badb had said true?

Unwilling to share her strangely intimate experience with the Malfoys, Hermione decided to think on it later. She had many things to do before she could privately attempt to commune with Badb. Belatedly, she realized she had no even thought to argue and question what the goddess had told her. Everything from Badb's lips had been immediately accepted as truth. Hermione struggled to think of any of it as a lie; the honesty of the tale resonated in her bones. Her inner beast curled behind her sternum and rested, content that the truth has been recognized.

"You must be able to attune to two wands," Narcissa said, breaking Hermione's musings. The polite façade was gone; wariness was firmly in its place. "That is… exceedingly rare."

"Rare seems to be the theme for me," Hermione said wryly. The Malfoys had no idea just what she was. She clutched her new wand tightly, half afraid Narcissa would attempt to confiscate it as well as her other one.

"But how?" Draco frowned. "You're right handed. Wizards can only use magic with their dominant hand."

"I'm actually ambidextrous," Hermione corrected. "My left and right hands both work quite well."

"Well, we can discuss this later," Narcissa declared, trying to regain control. "We still have much to do."

Hermione tucked the wand into an inside pocket of her robes and obediently followed her cousin, unwilling to argue. It was not the time to forge her own way; she didn't want to make the older woman anymore wary than she already was. Narcissa would still prove useful for quite a time yet. Which made her wonder how much of an advantage her probable sister could provide. Having a goddess in her corner was an untold resource.

Of course, _being_ a goddess was something else entirely.

They quickly sourced another piece of traditional jewelry for Hermione to show her status and heritage as the heir of the le Fay house. She stifled a laugh. Was it possible to be heir to a house she had also founded? At least the earrings held echoes of her origins. The tiny pearl drops were held by meticulously wrought silver talons, happily reminding her of Badb's clawed crown. She placed them in her ears as she quickly scoured the nearest shelves for reading material to take with her.

Seated next to her pile of assorted treasures and adorned in fine jewelry no pureblood could fault, Hermione studiously avoided the questing gaze of her elder cousin and watched the various sights at the cart rocketed back to the surface. They passed dozens of levels, each containing the vaults of purebloods, followed by halfbloods and prominent muggleborns. She saw names flash past as crests became less common. There was Potter, a noble looking vault; Rosier, inlaid with thorny rose bushes; Selwyn, garnished with a star of crossed swords; Greengrass, illustrated with shimmering images of a rearing unicorn; many flashed by. Gaunt, Gamp, Crouch, Abbott, Prewet, Marchbanks, on and on and on.

The history of wizarding Britain was deep and rich. To fit in, Hermione knew she needed to devote her free time to learning all of the ins and outs of pureblood society. That was another arena the Malfoys would be an invaluable resource for. However, she also had half a mind to ask Snape; he had been… oddly comforting, when he had advised her upon wakening. He also seemed stiff and prejudiced enough to be able to teach her.

And since she was a Slytherin, maybe he would also only deny her twice if she asked for his help.

She also had a duty to her sisters to learn as much as she could about herself. Macha had died and Badb had given herself so Annan could live. Hermione needed to set her mind to studying arcane magics, remnants of an age where goddesses had stalked men across battlefields. The tomes and scrolls gathered at her side were a good step forward to learning all she could about obscure magic. Her hair fizzed with electric excitement as she thought of the lost knowledge she alone had access to.

They reached the surface and were quickly trundled out of the bank by Grifvindurk. He had never looked so happy as when he had claimed his goblin treasures from the Black vault and then slammed the bank's great doors in their faces. At least, Hermione assumed his expression of crinkled eyes and guttural hisses was happiness.

When the heavy doors shut with a bang, Hermione realized hours and hours had passed. It was a little past popular lunch time, but close enough to catch the restaurants before they closed for the afternoon. They had several hours to complete whatever tasks her cousins desired, and maybe an hour or two for her own errands as well.

"Well," Narcissa declared primly as she tapped her wand in her opposite palm. Professor McGonagall did the same thing when she caught students doing anything suspicious. "The excitement for the morning appears to be over. Let's get us some lunch, then finish up in Diagon Alley and pop in Twilfitt and Tatting's, hmm?" She eyed Hermione critically for a moment. "And maybe Madam Primpernelle's as well."

Hermione frowned but chose wisely not to ask. She wasn't in the mood to be subtly ridiculed.

The Malfoys expertly led Hermione through the bustling streets, holding their heads high as people whispered and pointed. When people realized who Hermione was, the stares turned into surprised exclamations, and the noise level increased palpably.

They passed Flourish and Blott's, Madame Maulkin's, a broom shop, an animal store, and many more glass-fronted portals to the various habits and hobbies of magical Britain. Narcissa turned onto a narrow, cobblestoned road lined with increasingly fine store fronts. Hermione spied Madame Primpernelle's, a pale pink building with windows through which she glimpsed a neat row of witches getting pampered. She frowned in realization, curling a wayward tangle around her finger.

The trio arrive at some supposedly reputable place for witches and wizards to both see and be seen. The entire venue hushed expectantly when Narcissa Malfoy entered, followed by her son and what was unmistakably the daughter of Sirius Black.

Whispers broke out as people whispered to their lunch mates at the scandal. Hermione didn't need to be the brightest witch of her age to guess what the people said. Sirius Black, known rake and madman of upper society, had impregnated a muggle descended from the most infamous witch of all time. Astarte Hermione Black would be the talk of London, and maybe all parts of the wizarding world, for years.

The girl held her head high, proudly crowned with wild black curls, making some older people reminisce at the ancient Black arrogance, resurrected in the new generation. The boy had an unmistakable Malfoy swagger, and usually would have drawn coos from the witches and solid handshakes from the wizards as people came to politely greet his mother. However, he was not the star of the show.

The first vultures circled and settled as soon as the trio were seated. Narcissa clucked in disapproval, muttering, "Audacious. The server hasn't even brought the table water yet."

Hermione assumed approaching another table to engage on social warfare wasn't allowed until refreshments had been delivered. But the couple sitting down beside them did not seem to care. Judging by how her elder cousin's hands tensed, some other rule had been broken as soon as the couple ignored her to greet Hermione first.

Dark eyes glittered with interest as the woman extended her manicured fingers. "Heir Black," she addressed formally. "A pleasure. I am Posy Parkinson."

Hermione shook her hand delicately, restraining the urge to dig her nails into the woman's hands. She felt nothing warm for the family of Pansy Parkinson. "I am Hermione Black."

"Oh?" Mrs. Parkinson giggled, half covering her mouth as she eyed Narcissa in glee. "You chose your muggle name over your true name? How quaint."

"Old habits are hard to dissuade," Hermione explained pleasantly. "I didn't know my true name until very recently, you know."

"Oh, yes, my dear," the woman crooned, clapping her hands together pityingly. "I hope the ones who orchestrated such a misdeed are punished!"

Hermione froze. She sensed Draco flinch slightly, and a rustle of linen that signified Narcissa gripping her wand under the table. The wood of her new wand warming under her hand as well, Hermione thought very quickly. It appeared the names of her torturers was being kept secret, which explained why no one reacted in surprise to Draco's presence at her side.

How could she turn things to her advantage? Being beholden to the Malfoy's goodwill rankled, but she had been presented with an opportunity to change the tide. Thinking quickly, she barely stifled a fey smile.

It was not a very Slytherin, pureblood act to deny blackmail.

"Yes, but the two wore masks. Dreadful that the cowards don't admit to their crimes, but I hear speculation that the Flint's have begun denying social calls," Posy whispered conspiratorially. "Perhaps out of guilt, don't you think so, Atticus?"

The man beside her appeared so bland that Hermione had to squint to pick out his face clearly. Pansy greatly favored his wife, but her dark hair was from the husband. He began to pay attention with a start when his wife jabbed him with a lethal fingernail. "Yes, yes, of course you're right," he babbled.

His cantankerous wife seemed to accept his response, regally nodding her head. "I always keep an eye out for the old families," she said, staring into Hermione's eyes meaningfully.

Was she trying to woo her to her side? Hermione didn't know, but she disliked the sanctimonious attitude seeping from the witch.

"My daughter wrote me as soon as rumors spread," she tittered, "but we all know how gossip runs at Hogwarts! Remember our times there, Narcissa?"

"Of course," Narcissa Malfoy demurred. "But a girl raised correctly does not invite rumors and gossip."

Hermione barely withheld a snort at the subtle censure. She had seen girls her age arm themselves with gossip, weapons pointed at other students. That didn't even count the older girls, who were willing to reveal hard kept secrets at the blink of an eye if it helped them get ahead.

"You know Pansy, yes?" the woman asked, distracting Hermione from her thoughts.

She thought of her former friend, black hair and sharp, but mischievous blue eyes. Her feelings were in tumult over Pansy. She had left her to the wolves, but wouldn't Hermione have done the same? She didn't know. She had never had friends she needed to protect before. But the girl had been by her side when she had awoken. There was a stack of unopened letters she had written that Hermione had yet to read. Were they a sincere apology, or was Pansy a social climber, just like her mother appeared to be? There were too many things she didn't know. Was it worth letting Pansy say her piece? She would be a useful ally, since she knew all the ins and outs of the other families. But that would require Hermione sacrificing her own pride. Once again, it was something she could only focus on later. She had a lot of things shelved for later thought, since navigating treacherous pureblood machinations required all of her attention.

"Yes, I know her."

Mrs. Parkinson's eyes narrowed in pleasure. "Good! She would be a great friend to you, you know. She knows everything there is to know about this life, and I of course would love to help as well."

Hermione felt the venom in Narcissa's voice more than she heard it. "That is a lovely offer," her cousin interrupted smoothly. "Thankfully, Astarte has myself as her guardian, and Draco will step up to guide her at Hogwarts."

Posy Parkinson smiled, sickly sweet. "Of course, Narcissa. I would expect nothing less."

The arrival of water signaled the Parkinson's departure. "I was so glad to meet you, dear," Mrs. Parkinson said, her dim husband nodding along. "Feel free to owl me at any time."

"Of course," Hermione echoed, smiling politely. It would be a wet day in the Sahara when that happened.

As the couple left, Narcissa immediately attempted to do damage control, sensing the maelstrom brewing in the girl beside her. "Dumbledore and the staff believed it to be in everyone's best interests if the… identities of the boys were kept secret. Britain is a small place. Our population is tiny enough that nearly everyone knows each other, or at least knows the family. It is wise to keep such news under wraps."

A dark brow quirked. "I see," Hermione said. "That does nothing for me, however. I don't care who knows that it was Marcus Flint and your son who tortured me and would have killed me in our own common room. In fact, I would enjoy watching society cringe from either of the families involved."

Draco paled, and Narcissa eyed Hermione warily. "While that is true," she began, "I doubt that you plan to owl the Prophet for a revealing interview."

Hermione sipped her water. How would a Black handle such a situation? Or, how would Badb handle it?

Well, Badb would most likely have slaughtered most of wizarding Britain to satiate her bloodlust. Badb was a goddess of death, so thinking like her sister was out of the question. A Black, however, would probably be cunning. Morrigan had been the most cunning sister after all, Badb had claimed. Hermione wasn't identical to the ancient goddess of lore, but their souls and their magic were one and the same, so it stood to reason that their personalities would be similar.

"I don't intend to reveal the truth," Hermione offered. She tapped her fingers on the fine linen, considering Narcissa and Draco. Her nail tips felt very blunt and unthreatening after seeing Badb's claws, but she knew she could be lethal with her words, if she wielded her weapons carefully.

"Then what is your intention?" her older cousin inquired. Despite the tension lining the hands that were casually clasped before her, the witch's face was placid. Hermione admired her cousin's devotion to maintaining her cool façade. No one else in the restaurant but them knew the serious nature of their conversation.

If Hermione knew purebloods at all, she knew they would do nearly anything to uphold their pristine reputations. If she revealed Draco's part in what many were claiming as the worst student on student attack in decades, the Malfoy reputation would disintegrate as everyone saw Draco for the ignorant boy he truly was.

She thought of her to do list. It grew by every second, tasks added as she discovered more things she had to do. Why not use the Malfoys to complete a few tasks she didn't have to do on her own? There were several things she could use their help with, but one particular task needed to be completed as soon as possible. She would not be able to focus on other goals until the task was finished.

"You will help me," Hermione decided.

Narcissa blinked, the only indication of her confusion. "Which we have planned to do since the beginning."

"No," Hermione corrected. "You planned to help yourselves through me. I need impartial lessons on how to act, how to dress, how to talk. Personal research will bring me far enough, but I want a hands-on lesson to supplement what I read."

"That is easily arranged. You can come to the Manor-"

"You can come to the school," Hermione interrupted. She refused to be in a place where the Malfoys had a home advantage. The family had enough power over her. "Each Sunday. There are tons of empty classrooms we could use. I want Professor Snape present as well."

Narcissa sniffed in distaste. She tended to avoid Dumbledore's demesne if she could. "Very well."

"Also," Hermione continued, heart beating fast, "I want Marcus Flint dead."

Narcissa and Draco were unable to conceal their surprise and, in Draco's case, horror. The older witch seemed unbothered by the thought of murder.

While Hermione would have immensely enjoyed driving hot nails into each of Marcus Flint's joints, like a butterfly pinned to a board, she had considered her options and chosen to be cunning, rather than bloodthirsty.

All of Slytherin knew who had hurt her. The fact that the information had not leaked to the Prophet spelled trouble. The conniving families were biding their time to strike, and Hermione didn't know who their target was. But, she did know she wouldn't allow them to target her. So, she needed to take matters into her own hands. However, if she wanted to make the move to kill him herself, she would have to wait for Marcus to return to school before acting, and then all of her housemates would know she was the killer. That gave her house too much power over her. Who knew how the Slytherins would use blackmail such as murder against her? She did not want to find out.

By tasking the Malfoys with Marcus's demise, she removed doubt from her own name. Sure, people within her house would suspect it was her fault, but St. Mungo's kept track of official visitors. An alibi would also place her back at Hogwarts, far from the body. No Slytherin would be able to hold his death over her head as blackmail.

She was sure the Malfoys had agents capable of murder at their beck and call. They would be able to arrange for Marcus's untimely death, and none would be the wiser. And Hermione would be able to sleep through the night for once.

That left Draco Malfoy to take care of next. But she had other ideas for how to do that.

"You want me to have a boy killed? A young student?" Narcissa asked.

Hermione saw through Narcissa's plan. She thought to make Marcus sound relatable, so maybe Hermione would change her mind. She didn't consider that Marcus had had the poor fortune to awaken the beast within the young witch, the amoral creature that roared for his blood. "I don't care who he is. I don't care if he's Voldemort. I don't care if he's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. If he isn't dead within two weeks, I will tell the Prophet that _he_ ," she snarled caustically toward Draco, "was the little mastermind behind my torture. I will bring down your family through your idiotic son, and I will relish every second."

"Excuse me," Draco squeaked, fleeing to the bathroom as the last vestige of his courage quailed. His cloth napkin fluttered from his lap to the ground as he hastily scuttled away.

Narcissa watched her son flee in fear and her face hardened as she faced the young witch again. Hermione smiled in satisfaction.

She didn't care if Narcissa liked her or not. She was not trying to befriend the Malfoys, despite their relation. Narcissa could think whatever she liked; Hermione had no care for the family of the boy who had tried to make her feel as though she didn't deserve to be a witch. The older Malfoys had done nothing but try to influence her for their own gain. She felt no allegiance to her relatives; at best, she felt revulsion for their shared blood. Narcissa and Draco were testament to the weakening of pureblood society, crushed to a slow death by the weight of bureaucracy and stagnant traditions of such paltry sides as Light and Dark.

The scion of the Black and le Fay bloodlines would revolutionize magical Britain. There would be no place for people such as the Malfoys in her world.

"I see," Narcissa said.

Silence reigned. Hermione waited patiently.

"It can be done," the older witch acquiesced.

"It _will_ be done."

"Promise me you will not hurt Draco," Narcissa insisted, suddenly intent. "He was cruel and senseless, but only because he has grown to be that way."

"Trust me," Hermione said tonelessly, golden eyes piercing. "I know exactly who is to blame for his personal failings."

Narcissa peered in the direction her son had run, ensuring he wasn't coming back yet. She leaned over the table as if to titter something amusing, but her whisper was urgent and serious. "If you give your word as a witch not to hurt him, I will make sure Marcus dies in agony."

"Done," Hermione immediately agreed. She had never intended to hurt Draco anyway. Physically, at least. But Marcus's agony was a priceless bargaining chip.

The blonde witch sighed in relief, the relaxing of her body minute enough to continue concealing her true emotions. "Is that all?"

"For now," Hermione replied. "The other Slytherins all know who was at fault, you know."

"I am aware," Narcissa admitted. "None have come forward publicly, or contacted us privately for extortion."

"If someone tries to go to the Prophet, I will deny whatever they say. I can make up details to disprove my housemates. No one was actually in the room with us when the attack occurred. No," Hermione muttered to herself, "everyone else was happily hiding in their warm, safe rooms while I screamed."

As soon as Draco returned, pale and silent, their waiter tactfully returned to take orders. While they waited for their food, other purebloods approached to introduce themselves to Hermione. She noted each of their names and faces, remembering their children. In some cases, she met the ones who had stolen from her family.

The Greengrass family, Valencia Greengrass and her husband, Callus, politely nodded and kissed her fingers respectively. Daphne clearly got her looks from her mother; both were willowy and blonde.

"Daphne writes that you are the brightest of your year," Callus informed. His robes were a deep, forest green. A burnished gold signet ring decorated his hand. "Perhaps she could use your direction."

"Yes," Hermione agreed pleasantly. It was unlucky that the curious families had all waited until after her private talk with her cousin. She was not in a friendly mood. "Daphne has things to teach me as well."

"Oh?" Valencia raised an eyebrow. "What does our daughter have to share that you do not already know?"

"I find I don't quite know how to manage a charity," Hermione displayed her palms sadly. "But I hear from Marcellus Murdoch—oh I'm sure you know him, he's the Head of the Department of Public Information Services, after all—told me that the Greengrass family had the foresight to watch over the Black charities and hospital shares while the Blacks were indisposed. It was very kind of you to do, Mr. Callus, Mrs. Valencia. I look forward to seeing how well you have managed my family's assets for me."

The couple exchanged quick glances. "Yes," Valencia said slowly. "After all, we couldn't let such assets fall into the hands of the Ministry. They just bungle everything, you know."

"Of course not," Hermione smiled. "I would be grateful if you would include all of your records on the charities and the shares, including notes on management and projected growth. After all, I want to be fully educated for when you return my family's assets to me."

"That is an excellent idea, Heir Black," Callus declared eagerly. "I will gather the documents myself."

"I'm glad to hear it," the young witch nodded.

The Greengrass couple quickly took their leave. Any family that Hermione recognized from Mr. Murdoch's list faced the same fate. Thoros Nott was not lunching that day, according to Narcissa, so he was able to avoid Hermione's sharp censure. Smart of him. The Bulstrodes looked queasy at Hermione's polite castigation, their waxy skin growing sallower with each carefully chosen word. The MacMillans, a frail woman and her fearsomely arrogant husband, took it the worst.

"I will not be chastised by a girl, no matter her name," Ernest MacMillan sputtered.

"Well," Hermione's eyes glittered menacingly as she threatened yet another pureblood. "Should you refuse to relinquish my property to me, I would be thrilled to demand the Ministry's immediate investigation of your finances. I'm sure nothing would be amiss, correct?"

His wife fluttered her hands ineffectually as Ernest puffed his chest, face growing red with rage.

"Do not make a scene, Ernest," Narcissa commented calmly. Despite their earlier clash, Narcissa had watched with growing amusement as Hermione impressively manhandled each pureblood family that approached. "I know it is your custom to attract attention, but everyone here is simply trying to enjoy their meal in peace."

Hermione doubted that. The surrounding tables were watching in hardly concealed glee as the drama unfolded. Posy Parkinson could barely contain herself, hungrily staring as choice gossip happened right before her eyes. Burgeoning social faux pas was prime time action for the pureblood hierarchy.

Narcissa's pointed remark caused Ernest to glance around him. He saw all the people casually eating or talking, knowing they had averted their eyes moments before his passed over them. The wind left his sails. He glared balefully at Hermione and huffed his displeasure before stomping away, his wife following anxiously.

"You will catch on to etiquette and dress quickly," Narcissa said. "However, I fear I have little to teach you about how to handle others verbally. You did well."

While she was proud of how she had cowed each witch and wizard who had dared cross her family, Hermione knew she still had more to learn. She would listen intently to everything her cousins had to share. She couldn't afford to refuse aid so early in the game, no matter its origin. Besides, she had squished the Malfoys neatly under her thumb for the moment. Perhaps the threat of blackmail wouldn't last, but it was a good start to reclaiming the pride Draco had stolen from her.

She smirked, and Draco dropped his eyes to his lap. She would enjoy his fear of her, until she decided whether to mold him into her servant or her whipping boy. She might not physically harm him, but she had glorious ideas for how to twist him to her purposes.

Hermione surveyed the restaurant, ignoring the waiter's questions as he placed roast duck before her. Purebloods, the noble class of magical society, cautiously averted their eyes as she looked to each of them in turn. She had proved that regardless of her young age and sudden introduction into their world, she deserved her spot at the top. After all, the Blacks had always been at the very top of the pureblood food chain.

But the Morrigan was the apex predator even the alpha wolves feared.

Her smile grew. If anyone noticed her canine teeth looked slightly more pointed than before, no one said a word.


	16. Chapter 16

**I LOVED the reviews last chapter! Thanks so much to everyone who said something, whether constructive or complimentary. I appreciated every word ya'll had to share.**

 **This is more of a filler chapter. After this, things will pick up pace. It was important to lay down the basics for how Hermione interacts with people, especially the Malfoys. Things will still be obnoxiously detailed, but chapters may span weeks rather than a few hours from now on.**

 **As always, don't forget to review! Enjoy :)**

Narcissa and Draco were more cautious around Hermione than they had been at the beginning of the day. She had made her side clear, and it wasn't the same side as them. A childish thrill quirked her lips into a grin every time either of the Malfoys averted their gaze from her. Narcissa was much less easy to scare than her son, holding her gaze before she purposely trailed her eyes elsewere, likely because it was difficult to be scared of a twelve-year-old girl.

Hermione couldn't wait until she was older. It rankled her how adults treated her as they did every young witch, like she needed to be coddled. One day, she would prove her competency. Until then, she intended to learn as much as she could, until her knowledge and power were known by all. Big ambitions for a young girl, but Hermione had never been an average witch.

The three wandered through cobbled streets, completing their various errands. Hermione reestablished the mail order book delivery Flourish and Blott's had owled her about. She allowed Narcissa to handle the fitting and ordering of finer clothes, instructing the seamstress to embroider the Black family crest onto each outer robe. Graciously, she even allowed Madame Primpernelle to poke and prod her face.

Narcissa dragged Hermione, quite unwillingly, into a pastel explosion, populated by dainty witches that followed the proprietress's every sing-song order. As soon as the curvy witch saw the Malfoys, she expertly hurried the two witches at the register out the door. After the women exited, she locked the door behind them and then turned to the Malfoys and Hermione with a happy smile. "My favorite customer!" she said. "What brings Mrs. Malfoy into my parlor today?"

"Always a pleasure, Okoye," the blonde witch greeted warmly. "But today is not for me, but for my cousin, Heir Black."

The witch immediately turned her attention to Hermione, inspecting her critically. Hermione returned the favor. Okoye Primpernelle was a beautiful, statuesque woman, her dark skin glowing softly beneath the warm amber lighting. Her black eyes were huge and liquid, lined in thick eyelashes, but her crowning beauty was her hair. Thick braids were piled atop her head, interwoven with pale blue and green scarves. Tiny golden butterflies opened and closed their iridescent wings in lazy sweeps from their myriad perches among the braids. While extravagant, Madame Primpernelle's hair only added to the strong beauty of the witch, without drowning out the delicacy of her features, a curious blend of Africa and Europe.

"Yes, I had heard—please, sit, dear girl," she instructed, leading Hermione to a glossy parlor chair. "I do love new material. It's so good of Mrs. Malfoy to bring you to me. Look! Such eyes! Such cheekbones!" the witch exclaimed, fluttering manicured hands about Hermione's face. "You will be such a beauty!"

"Yes," Narcissa agreed. "But is there anything you can do about the-?" she motioned to Hermione's hair.

The witch tutted to herself and minced her way to a set of shelves, stocked with colorful glass bottles. "Something to just calm the frizz, yes?" she called over her shoulder.

"Try to straighten it completely," Narcissa corrected.

"Absolutely not."

Wary of Hermione's temper, Narcissa questioned lightly, "You have a different desire?"

Hermione thought about her dream meeting with her sister, Badb. Badb's scarlet hair had been long and wildly curled. Any connection to her sisters was one she treasured. "Leave it. Do what you want to my face and skin, but my hair is to be left alone."

Narcissa pursed her lips, the first sign of annoyance Hermione had seen cross the woman's face. "Very well," she finally said, as if she had the final say in anything involving Hermione Black.

Madame Primpernelle spent half an hour cursing hair off her legs and underarms permanently, a handy charm that Hermione thought she could possibly engineer to work on other body parts. Skin, maybe? It would be grotesque, but useful if she needed to inspire terror. Skinless bodies sounded like the creatures from a cheap muggle horror flick, but she didn't doubt it would frighten a witch or wizard as well.

It took the witch, garbed in lilac robes that flattered her rounded figure, another half hour to painstakingly shape Hermione's eyebrows by cursing individual hairs. Draco impatiently lounged in a tasteful pastel chair, unhappily being picked over by another witch. Hermione smothered a laugh when they mussed his hair and he scowled.

Unwillingly, the young witch began to relax, lulled by the sharp tug of the charm and the soft music. The shop was lit by natural light cascading through pale amber panes of glass, lending the room a warm glow. Violins entwined with a silvered lyre shivered across the air. She barely even flinched when a young woman, who introduced herself as Lunette, smeared a thick paste over her face. The ambience loosened her limbs and allowed her mind to float free.

Despite her calm relaxation, Hermione didn't escape Madame Primpernelle unscathed; her abused pores stung from the effects of the curse, along with her pride. However, the kindly witch gifted her a pot of vanilla scented cream to smooth over her face and chest. It was supposed to prevent the typical zits that came with puberty, but Hermione half suspected it was just a small token to distract her from the sharp pinpricks tingling on her skin. It was likely also meant as an apology for potentially insulting her appearance.

Standing to her feet, she stretched her stiff arms over her head, rolling her joints. The shop's aura kept her breathing deep and even as she surveyed the store, causing her to absently wonder if there was a mood affecting charm working its magic. A shelf filled with glass bottles caught her eye, and she wandered over to get a closer look as Narcissa cooed distractedly over her son.

Sleakeazeys to smooth hair, Rumpled Rover to create a tousled look, Veela Velvet to soften rough skin, Pegasus Glimmer to add shine to anything, and many more. Blue, green, pink, purple, red, all the bottles labeled with images of smooth or curly hair, sparkling skin or kiss-swollen lips. What would a girl even do with such products? She was sure Pansy or Daphne knew, but her mind skittered away from the girls quickly.

Hermione considered a smaller bottle curiously. The glass was multifaceted, iridescent with a rainbow of pale shades. "Get the Goddess Grin," she read the tagline aloud.

"That product whitens teeth to a bright pearl," Madame Primpernelle explained from across the room. "It makes a great addition to a gift basket!"

 _Gift basket_ , Hermione thought. "Narcissa," she asked, enjoying the slightly aggrieved look on her elder cousin's face when her attention was torn from her precious, darling Draco. "Is it common to give the other girls in the house gift baskets?"

The blonde witch blinked thoughtfully. "It is not common, since it is traditionally restricted to holidays."

"I'm going to make a new tradition, then," Hermione said, plucking other products from the shelf that caught her eye. "Madame Primpernelle, I need to make 22 identical baskets. One for each girl in each year of Slytherin."

"But why?" Draco asked. He recoiled when Hermione swung her gold gaze to stare at him.

"To start anew," she replied, twisting a bright turquoise bottle in her hand.

She had zero honest intentions to offer her forgiveness to the girls who had left her to a Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy. Her fellow Slytherin girls had ignored her screams as she was tortured to the point of an accidental magic burst, which happened very rarely once a witch or wizard began formal training. In fact, Hermione knew from her readings before the attack that magical outbursts never occurred unless in extremely dire circumstances, potentially rupturing the witch's connections to magic. She had been wondering why such a powerful accidental burst had not destroyed her connection to magic, as her research had said it would. Discovering her origin neatly explained her ability to channel large amounts of magic without a focus, such as a wand.

The fiery explosion would have sundered an ordinary magic user's magical channels. Marcus could have destroyed her natural connection to magic, leaving her weak and little more than a squib while the channels slowly repaired themselves. The thought of being weakened, as she had in the common room, roused the beast in her chest. Wicked talons scored the cage of her ribs as the creature snarled viciously, thrashing its tail. She forced the beast to settle down, standing still before the shelf to focus all of her willpower on the monster trying to claw its way from her chest. The creature growled, bearing an array of deadly teeth, before settling onto its haunches, immune to the calming charm cast over the shop.

"How about this one for yourself?" Madame Primpernelle asked lowly, her warm voice reminding Hermione of her surroundings. The older witch gently took hold of the bottle clenched in her hand, carefully unbending each white-knuckled finger, until the bottle was freed. Then, she squeezed Hermione's hand comfortingly, before pressing a thin vial into the empty space.

Hermione looked down, mind still far away. The pale yellow glass entombed a lively sprig of rosemary. "It's a calming essence," Madame Primpernelle explained, curving the young witch's fingers over the vial. "Keep this. Free of charge."

The stopper popped out easily, even beneath numbed fingers. Hermione lifted the vial to her nose and gave it an experimental sniff. The essence immediately caused a languorous heat to spread through her limbs, soothing the beast by enticing it with sun-warmed naps. She shuddered at the respite offered from the enraged creature. "Thank you," she whispered, noting with relief that no one had noticed her moment of mental absence.

"I get the same way sometimes," Madam Primpernelle confided, her dark eyes understanding. "Sometimes, the memories of the war are too much. I don't know for sure what pains plague you, but you can always visit me here for some pampering and relaxation."

Unused to feeling untainted gratitude, Hermione only blinked and nodded her head agreeably. "The memories of war?" she asked, not understanding.

The older witch carefully ensured no one was listening and toed closer, lowering her voice. "The memory of horror or pain is what makes you freeze that way, dear one," she explained softly. "I recognize the signs. Your eyes clouded, like you were miles away from here, and your entire body tensed so tightly I was scared you would snap a muscle from the stress. My memories," she lowered her eyes before they filled, "cause the same reaction in me. It is not wrong at all to fear whatever hurt you may do so again. Some nights, I can still hear the cracks of apparition, and then the cut-off screams of whoever was taken."

Hermione realized Madame Primpernelle had assumed her brief lapse had been because of a bad memory. Muggles had a much better way of putting it: PTSD. Madame Primpernelle clearly suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder if memories of the war twelve years ago continued to bother her.

The beast, while calm and sated, snorted its amusement. Madame Primpernelle had no idea the true cause of the young witch's glazed eyes and taught figure was because she was struggling to contain an unknown monster within her body. The shopkeeper would be horrified to know the truth was so far from what she innocently believed.

"Those students should be in Azkaban for what they did to you," Madame Primpernelle continued. "My hands shook when I was reading the Prophet about you. I hope Dumbledore finds who did it and sends them off."

The sweet Madame Primpernelle believed Hermione had PTSD from her attack. She couldn't be more wrong.

Hermione had never been the type of person to wallow in self-pity. Her go-to emotion regarding trauma was never fear, but anger. Seething rage that caused her hair to spark and her body to ready itself for a battle, whether of words or fists.

No, her momentary lapse was not because Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy had mentally scarred her. It was because the beast within her roared for bloodshed, untamed might and endless power. Hermione echoed its mocking laughter inside the privacy of her head. She did not have time to waste worrying over hurt feelings; the monster wanted out.

"Yes," Hermione agreed absently. "Thank you for your support."

"Of course, my dear," Madam Primpernelle said, patting the young witch's closed fist. "Now, let's get this basket business done with! What else do you want to include?"

Hermione carefully picked out a few more items, remembering conversations the other girls had had about their beauty regimens. She ensured that the basket was perfect, filled to the brim with the most popular and effective beauty products.

"I didn't think you liked any of the Slytherin girls anymore," Draco ignorantly interrupted, "so why are you dumping galleons on them?"

"I wonder why that is," she replied. Her golden eyes dared the pureblooded scion to say a word, and he wisely clapped his mouth shut. "But it is never too late to make friends again."

The purpose of the gift baskets was to unsettle the other girls. She would act sweet and understanding until she had the perfect moment to reveal her true nature. Lulling her roommates into a false sense of security was an advantage she couldn't pass up. She had foolishly spent the first months of the school year befriending them, enjoying their company and unique quirks. They had learned parts of her she had never revealed to anyone. She had never had friends before.

The girls had taken her fragile friendship and declared her unworthy of their society with a smile on their faces. She was already exhausted by how she tended to avoid thinking about them. Their betrayal had been unexpected, but she could no longer allow herself to just not concern herself with her female housemates. They had made it obvious they did not consider her a part of their world; however, the truth had been freed. She was a princess of their rotten world. Hermione fully intended to be the last one smiling when their precious society broke beneath her hands.

Madame Primpernelle assured the young Black witch that each basket would be delivered to the Slytherin common room during dinner, so that the girls would all return to a surprise. The white gift baskets were tied with gauzy bows, filled with bottles of Goddess Grin to whiten teeth, Spider Silk Skin to add a shimmery sheen, Sleakeazeys, fine powders to dust over cheekbones, hair ribbons in shades of green and grey, and Dead Sea Scrub to soften skin. Sweet smelling perfumes disguised as flower petals were bedded in the whicker lining, runes for health and beauty painted on the sides.

"This is a lovely idea, Astarte," Narcissa said proudly. "The girls will be so pleased to see you reaching out to your rightful equals."

Hermione didn't even have a chance to declare herself above her housemates, equal in no way, because Draco managed to humiliate himself.

"What is this even for?" he asked, scrunching his face. He opened the tin of shimmer powder and sniffed. Then, he sneezed, tipping the tin toward him and spilling the shiny contents all over his grey robes.

Narcissa and Madame Primpernelle gasped in shock. Hermione sat down heavily, placed her face in her hands, and laughed until tears spilled down her face and her ribs ached.

Draco was too afraid of his cousin to snap at her for laughing at him. He could only glare impotently as his mother clucked her tongue.

"What a mess," Narcissa shook her head. "And you, Draco—your robes are simply covered!"

Draco's sneeze had caused the shimmery powder to blast backwards and coat him from neck to trousers. The glint of the lights caused the powder to gleam iridescently. He shone in shades of pale gold, pink, and lilac.

"That would be the Unicorn Horn Powder," Madame Primpernelle belatedly answered Draco's question. "It's meant to apply a slight shine to cheekbones or collarbones."

He looked down at himself and spread his arms in dismay. As the sleeves of his robes fanned outward, covered in the girlish shimmer, Hermione's abating laughter resumed forcefully.

"He looks-," she gasped, "like a butterfly!" then she melted into her seat, body shaking from her mirth. She felt desperate to stop laughing, but the mood charm had caused her to relax too much. Her normal stoic manner was overpowered by nearly hysterical giggles. Narcissa was eyeing her cousin in disbelief; she would have never guessed the young girl could relinquish her steely control long enough to truly laugh.

The shimmer had spread onto his billowing robe sleeves, giving the effect of iridescent wings. He swung his arms to try and dispel some of the clingy powder, but it caused Hermione to laugh even harder. It looked like he was flapping his _wings_!

Madame Primpernelle had the powder vanished with an expert flick of her wand. "Happens all the time," she comforted. "At least it was powder and not a long-lasting potion! I had a client spill Sinful Sable all over himself when his wife took her eye off him for just a minute. Why, his skin was mottled in black for weeks. He looked like a dairy cow," she giggled.

Hermione had met many insufferable people over the course of her seemingly endless excursion into magical Britain. Madame Primpernelle, however, was a ray of sunshine. Yes, the woman devoted her life to attending the vanities of snobbish pureblooded women, but she genuinely enjoyed her work. She knew the ins and outs of every product gracing her shelves, expertly applying them in the exact right amount. The curvy witch was bubbly and bright, spreading her gentle warmth wherever she flitted to within her finely appointed shop.

Despite the horrific abuse upon her pores, and the vague feeling of being manipulated by the calming charm, Hermione was glum to bid Madame Primpernelle and her pretty aides goodbye. "Come back and see me soon, Ms. Black!" Madame Primpernelle ordered cheerfully. "I want to see you grow into those eyebrows and cheekbones!"

The young witch couldn't muster her ire at being ordered around. "As soon as I can," she promised. "Thank you for today."

Madame Primpernelle smiled. Hermione believed the shopkeeper knew her thanks had been more for the laughter and relaxation, while falsely achieved, than the beautifying. However, the mocking part of her laughed at the woman's naiveté. She falsely believed Hermione was a victim. The Black scion would never be a victim; she wasn't capable of ceding enough of herself to be considered one.

The Malfoys and the Black witch left the coziness of Madame Primpernelle's to enter the grey cobbled street. Suddenly bereft, Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

All of her most pressing goals had been achieved, plus some. Everything left to do would either take time to arrange, such as meeting her new business associates, or concentrated effort, like the dozens of topics she needed to become an expert in as quickly as possible. Her eyelids dropped in exhaustion as a clock somewhere chimed dinner time.

"It is time for you two to return to school," Narcissa decided primly. "You're both about to fall over. I'll have a house elf let the Hogwart's elves know you both need to have dinner brought to your dormitories. I can't imagine either of you will manage to stay awake through dinner in the great hall."

Narcissa quickly marshalled the two students and ferried them into Dumbledore's office in the time it took Hermione to yawn. The headmaster was seated behind his desk, speaking to a severe looking man whose grey scruff led Hermione to think he resembled an aging lion.

"Just the girl I was looking for," Dumbledore said cheerily. "Hermione, I would like to introduce you to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Rufus Scrimgeour."

Madame Primpernelle's calming charm had thoroughly worn off, and any natural vestige of calm fled as soon as Hermione realized she had been ambushed.

Ignoring her headmaster, Hermione shook the gruff man's hand. "I am sure I have much to discuss with you, Mr. Scrimgeour," she said, struggling to remain polite as her irritation reached astronomic levels.

"So I have been told," the wizard agreed, glancing at the Malfoys behind her. "Narcissa," he greeted coldly.

"Scrimgeour," the blonde witch returned coldly.

"Yes," Dumbledore interjected, regaining control before the former auror and the Death Eater's wife froze the room with their caustic glares. "I invited Rufus to the school to speak to Hermione upon her return. With your leave, Mrs. Malfoy, we can get down to business."

"Any business of my charge is business of mine," Narcissa argued. "I will not leave."

"You're all welcome to stay," Hermione sniped. "I plan on eating and going to bed. Mr. Scrimgeour, I would be happy to speak with you at a later date, _alone_ ," she clarified, eyeing her cousins and headmaster. "Tonight is not available. I am sure my head of house, Professor Snape, would not mind escorting me to your office sometime in the next week or so. Or, you can meet me here. I will leave it up to you. Until then, I bid you all goodnight." As she motioned to leave, the wand in her sleeve heated perceptibly. Kicking herself for not remembering, she stopped, turned, and silently held her hand out, demanding her wand.

"Use it wisely," her older cousin cautioned. Hermione knew what her cousin truly meant: don't use the wand on Draco.

"Oh, I intend to," Hermione rebutted, manners well and truly forgotten.

Draco scurried after her as she stomped down the spiral staircase, resolutely ignoring the deadly silence she left behind. Judging by Narcissa's expression before she had left, Hermione had no doubt the silence was due to a spell hastily cast as soon as the door had shut on the students' heels. Narcissa had looked as if she was preparing for a shoot-out, and only she had a gun.

Hermione may have stayed to talk to Rufus Scrimgeour if it had been in private, but her day managing goblins, ministry workers, goblins again, purebloods, and all throughout, the Malfoys, had frayed her patience to bare threads. She was exhausted. She still needed to eat, she had to review her goals list and her research topics, bespell her bed, and fortify herself to finally face her former friends. Important conversations with the head of the DMLE would have to wait until she was well rested and well prepared for one of her biggest goals.

Freeing her father.

The idea had been in her mind since she had discovered his imprisonment, but she had forced herself to focus on things she needed to do immediately. Freeing her father needed intense research and political connection building among the DMLE. It was a long term goal, but that did not diminish its importance.

Just the thought of her father exhausted Hermione even further. She really needed to see her mom to figure out her complicated feelings on the topic. She also needed to ask her mom quite a few questions. Such as: why the bloody hell had she kept the truth from her daughter? Or, alternatively: why the bloody _fuck_ had she kept the _fucking truth_ from her _fucking daughter?_

Clearly, Hermione's exhaustion was muddling her thoughts.

She muttered to herself the entire way down to the Slytherin common room, cursing everyone who had had a hand in her creation or upbringing, from her mother and imprisoned father, to the janitor from one of her primary schools, to the man who had worked at the grocery store her entire life. She didn't notice if they passed any other students, but they were likely all eating in the great hall, anyway. Each step she took seemed to take longer and longer, until her legs were stretched wire thin into the distance. Finally, she stood before the entrance to the common room, the bare stretch of stone mockingly awaiting the password.

Her mind blanked. The day had been so long and arduous that her mentally faculties faltered.

" _Argent_ ," Draco spoke from behind her. The door materialized.

She had forgotten her cousin had followed her from the headmaster's office. He had remained quiet the entire time, steadily emulating her clipped pace while he listened to her whispered thoughts. She glared at him, vacillating between demanding to know what he had heard or that he keeps quiet and never speak of it.

"Don't worry," he said, stepping forward into the common room. "I won't tell anyone what you were saying. It was mostly just complaining about your family, anyway. Besides," he smiled shallowly, throat moving as he tried to swallow his nerves, "I understand needing to complain about family."

"You know I'm not going to kill you," she said suddenly, surprising herself as well as him.

Her statement stopped the boy in his tracks. "You don't?" he asked breathlessly.

"No," she said, resolute. And she was being truthful. She didn't intend to kill him. Oh, she had wanted to—she had had detailed fantasies of how she could do it. But she had decided he would be more useful alive. He would never be her close friend, but he was, unfortunately, family. Their shared blood would keep him alive, but it would not protect him from being shaped into her pawn.

"Why not?" he asked, grey eyes wide.

Hermione frowned. "You're going to question me on it? Do you want me to change my mind?"

"No!" he exclaimed, proffering his gratefulness at her mercy. He knew she would kill him if she wanted to. He had watched Marcus Flint burn from her dark magic; nothing had ever caused him to fear someone more. He was scared of his father, but Draco Malfoy was absolutely terrified of Hermione Black.

The young witch eyed her cousin. "We can keep things that way easily, if you do a few things for me."

"Anything," Draco said, "I'll do whatever you want." Draco could not be faulted for not valuing his life.

"Good," she smiled. "I'll give you some tasks tomorrow. Until then, don't answer any questions our housemates have about today. Only tell them that I am the officially declared heir to the Black and the le Fay houses. If you mention anything else, I'll pull your toenails out one by one."

Draco paled, his porcelain skin lightening to a nearly translucent white. "Of- of c-course," he stuttered.

"Excellent. Keep your mouth shut, do what I say, and we can likely be civil. Now go to bed. I plan on sleeping a full twelve hours."

Draco followed her order without hesitation, darting into the boys' dorms. Hermione entered her dorms more slowly, studiously avoiding looking at the wall of the common room, where she had been flung like a ragdoll. However, she did note with amusement the gift baskets set up on the chairs and tables, awaiting their owners. Thankfully, none of her housemates were about yet. If she had had to face down one of the girls or boys who had listened to her scream happily, there would be bloodshed.

Stacks of new books and possessions sat at the end of her bed. Narcissa had had her things sent to her room so they did not have to carry everything through the streets. Hermione couldn't be bothered to organize everything before she ate and slept. She changed into her nightclothes and withdrew her first wand, casting protective charms over her bed. Then, she hid all of her new belongings under the bed, hoping that her roommates would be smart enough not to mess with her. She climbed into her bed and ate the dinner the elves had left for her. She didn't taste any of it, too tired to expend any more energy even thinking.

She still wanted to revise her various lists, but it would have to wait. She barely had time to push her empty plate to the nightstand before she felt sleep claiming her.

As soon as her eyes shut, Badb came.


	17. Chapter 17

**Thanks again for all of the lovely reviews! As for the unlovely ones, I'm sorry that ya'll don't like the story, but it's not going to change the plot. Hermione is very OOC. She's been pointed out as being too much like Voldemort and Bellatrix. That doesn't appeal to everyone, I know. She's powerful, and she's only going to get more so as the story progresses, because this is fanficiton and I like writing a character who grows and dominates. I put the dark! warning in the summary, so expect a little cruelty and craziness. I appreciate anyone who gives my story a try, and I understand if it isn't your cup of tea, but that doesn't mean you have to be rude. I'm working hard to write something me and others enjoy; if you don't like it, that's fine, but focus on constructive criticism rather than just outright negativity.**

 **Several of ya'll have asked for longer chapters, which is a project in the working. There are a few coming up that may g over 10,000 words, although this one isn't too impressive. Eventually, I will go back and tool around with my earlier chapters, back when I thought this story would work as a half-drabble type. I have no seen the light ya'll tried to show me, and it has revealed to me my many faults.**

 **It's also been pointed out several times that I have mistakenly spelled floo as flu, more than once. Oops! I will fix that and re-upload when I have the time, I promise. Until then, I will re-read the review titled Achoo! and giggle uncontrollably because it was funny. Ya'll can just assume all the fireplaces in magical Britain have the flu until it's fixed. That's not too AU, right?**

 **As always, enjoy these filler bits below this long, dramatic author's note! There is a lot more to come that I think ya'll will really love. I know I loved writing it!**

"I won't release a Death Eater, Albus, no matter what you claim," Rufus Scrimgeour thundered as soon as the children were gone. "And I certainly won't stoop to help a Black!" The old auror had seen many people in his life, good and evil. The eyes always told the truth. The moment he had looked into Hermione Black's golden gaze, a rushing tide of anger had threatened to curl its fingers around her slim throat. He hadn't felt that anger since his last battle during the war. "That girl is not right in the head, and I doubt _her_ influence helps."

"Oh, come now," Narcissa Malfoy purred.

"Rufus, old friend, Sirius is not a Death Eater-"

"Your word isn't enough for me," the head of the DMLE argued. "If you've known all this time he was innocent, why haven't you said anything, then? This all reeks of some new plot of yours."

"That's a good question, Mr. Scrimgeour," Narcissa said thoughtfully. "Tell us, Albus."

"It is recent knowledge," Dumbledore explained. "I would never have left an innocent man in Azkaban."

Rufus snorted. "Recent knowledge? Everyone involved in that night is dead and gone for ten years. I'm done entertaining you, Albus. Don't contact me again—go through the proper channels next time."

"What of the girl?" Dumbledore asked as Rufus turned to leave.

"I told you before," the ex-auror growled, "I won't release a Death Eater. Those slippery bastards are too good at getting away. Right, Mrs. Malfoy?"

Narcissa turned her nose up at the man, refusing to take the bait.

"You won't allow a girl to save her father?" Dumbledore continued.

"Don't try to manipulate me, Albus. I have no patience for it. Do the world a favor and manage your school rather than other people's lives." And with that, Rufus stormed out and slammed the door after him.

"That went as you expected, no?" Narcissa smiled.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Thank you for kindly escorting Miss Black today. I am afraid I must go down to eat with the students."

Narcissa graciously accepted the dismissal, but her coldly amused smile lingered.

The headmaster eyed his familiar, perched on the windowsill. "What to do now?" he wondered aloud. If Rufus did not cooperate, that made things much harder. However, Dumbledore remembered, he did have another pawn left to play. Perhaps it would be easier to sway Hermione to the light with a famously familiar face?

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Sirius Black sat within his cell and rotted. His sable hair, once lustrous and thick, hung thin and limp around his face. Grey eyes burned within a hollow face, but none of the jailers could determine what drove the prisoner to retain so much frightening intensity in the dismal atmosphere of Azkaban.

None of the jailers knew the truth about Peter Pettigrew like Sirius; none of the jailers could understand what it was like to lose a best friend to betrayal, and then become wrongfully imprisoned. No, Sirius suffered alone. At least until the Dementors came around. Then, the entire row of cells suffered, until everyone's moans faded into abject, despairing silence.

His day consisted of the bare minimum of stale bread, followed by Dementors, and then concluded with horror-induced, piss-soaked shaking. Everything was the same for ten years. He starved himself. He suffered. He realized how far he had fallen.

Everything changed the moment one guard threw the _Daily Prophet_ into his cell.

Sirius Black used his thin, pale fingers to snatch the dull paper from the floor of his grimy cell. He very rarely had ways to entertain himself outside of his own imagination, which grew dimmer by the day. A Daily Prophet was a hallowed treasure within the Azkaban cells. Any new source of entertainment was as good as goblin gold, but a Prophet- better yet, a hot-off-the-press Prophet, if he had his date straight- was akin to all of Gringotts. He snapped it open with a flourish, some small amount of his flair for the dramatic remaining from his better days, and set his piercing grey eyes on the raging headline.

" _Astarte Hermione Black, Unknown Daughter of Infamous Sirius Black, at Hogwarts!"_

His hands lost feeling, fingers going numb. He dropped the news rag to the dirty floor. He shut his eyes. He clenched them as tightly as he could, rubbing his eyeballs with the sharp corners of his fists. When his eyes began to water, he opened them once more, but the Prophet's title did not change. _Astarte. Hermione. Black. Black. Black. Black._

The name repeated in his mind like a mantra. He realized he was whispering it aloud to himself, like a prayer.

What many people did not know about Dementors was that continued exposure to their influence muddled any thought processing in the brain. When Dementors Kissed someone, they gently placed their skeletal fingers against their victim's face. With that bit of contact, they created a mental connection so that their oily, leeching darkness could sift through their victim's thoughts, seeking anything that would appeal. Sirius had felt himself become more and more scatterbrained through the years as the habitual Kiss disorganized his memories again and again. Sometimes, he found it hard to focus on anything at all. Even the faces of James and Lily, Harry and Remus, began to become less distinct.

Reading that headline changed everything. He had clarity that he hadn't felt since entering Azkaban, since the night everything went to shit, really. Recognizing the feeling, he named it: purpose. He devoured the article, whispering that name to himself over and over: "Astarte Hermione Black. Astarte Hermione Black. Astarte Hermione Black." He wished he had a face for the name. Was it the face he saw in the mirror?

The author of the column, the damnable Rita Skeeter, hadn't been able to get into Hogwarts to interview Astarte herself. Any professors she had managed to snag had reportedly refused to comment, but several shopkeepers along Diagon Alley had been willing to talk about the young witch they had met just once.

Ollivander had quite a bit to share on how he had just known in his bones she was destined for greatness. _"Ah, yes, Hermione—Astarte it is now, I suppose- vine, 10 3'4ths inches, dragon heartstring_. _She went through quite a few wands before one was willing to choose her, just like her father, if I remember correctly. I had suspected something about her was different. I should have known she was a Black from the way she looked at me—very Slytherin, quite unlike her father."_

Flourish and Blott's had shared their admiration for her obvious love of reading. Sirius knew she hadn't gotten that from him, certainly. Everyone interviewed agreed that she had been intelligent and engaging. Pride made his eyes glitter. He couldn't help but be amazed. He had a daughter!

Skeeter's flourishing phrases described in horrifying, vivid detail how Astarte's parentage had been brought to light. The girl, just a bloody twelve-year-old, had been tortured in the Slytherin common room by her fellow students, masked to conceal their identities. Sirius's vision clouded with rage and his hands clenched tightly on the paper. The torture had broken a complex enchantment that had kept her hidden from the world. According to Skeeter's "trustworthy sources," the enchantment had ensured Astarte looked different so she did not favor the Black looks as she naturally would have, and had kept Astarte's information out of any ledgers that could have revealed the truth.

Astarte had been tortured. His _daughter_ had been beaten and bloodied while he had sat in his cell and rotted. Did he love his daughter, a girl he had never met and had just discovered? He couldn't think about that; his thoughts were moving too quickly for him to pin down an emotional response. What he knew for absolute sure was that he was going to murder whoever had hurt her and earn a true Azkaban sentence. The Black temper was infamous; the Black revenge even more so. Rage consumed him for a moment, turning his eyes to flint, before he regained scant control of himself and returned to his musings.

He had so many questions that whirled through his head, but he couldn't stop his spinning mind to consider any of them. All he could really make from the mess of his thoughts was that he needed to meet this girl, and to do that he needed to get out of Azkaban, which was famously impossible.

Merlin, there had to be a way! He had to meet her. She was his daughter, for bloody sake!

He had a daughter.

 _He had a daughter._

The guard, lingering outside the cell as Sirius stared blankly at the bold headline, laughed. "Congratulations are in order I 'spose, Mr. Black!"

"Yes," he whispered back. He leaned backwards onto the cold, hard wall of his cell. His shoulder blades stuck from his back, evidence of starvation. The skin was thin between his bones and the rough stone, but he didn't feel it. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

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"If I'm sucked into these dreams, do I still get my rest? Because if I wake up tired, I'm going to be bloody furious," Hermione snarled, glaring at her sister. As soon as she had fallen asleep, she had found herself back on the same coastal cliff Badb had brought her to the first time they had met.

Badb laughed. "How good to see you as well, Anann!" The goddess pricked Hermione's nightclothes, her claws tearing the thin fabric easily. "How strange," she commented. "I had forgotten mortals sleep in different clothing. It must be very limiting to need sleep as a mortal does."

"Yes, extremely limiting," Hermione agreed waspishly, "especially when inconsiderate sisters steal you away."

"Your accusations wound, dear sister," Badb laughed again. "Do not worry. Your sleep is undisturbed, for it is your soul that has journeyed to my demesne, not your body. The body of Hermione will be well rested upon the morn."

"Good," the young witch said. "I'm bloody tired."

"No doubt is cast upon that," Badb said, quirking a brow. Her golden eyes glittered in amusement. "It is good to hear your voice again, even if it is being insulting. Alas, you have always been offensive, Anann. This a welcome return to our old ways. Come, let us sit again by the cliff. I know the questions that burn your tongue."

Still grumpy despite being assured of her rest, Hermione followed Badb to the cliff's edge. The two settled in the wind-worn grass. Badb was attired exactly as she had been earlier, barefoot and harshly beautiful. Madame Primpernelle wouldn't have known what to do with the skeletal beauty of Badb.

"Ask of me what you desire to know," Badb said, waving a hand lazily in gesture for Hermione to begin.

"So I have the same soul as the Morrigan," Hermione began.

"Yes, I have said so," Badb confirmed.

"Do I also have the same magical power?"

"Not quite," the goddess said. "Your ability to channel magic is much more powerful than an average witch or wizard. But, there are certain things an immortal soul within an immortal body can do, that you cannot. All souls are immortal, but yours alone is unchanging. A normal mortal's soul acquires scars from each life than follows them into the cycle, allowing each soul's personality to fluctuate greatly from person to person, while maintaining base similarities. Your soul also carries with it your personality, exactly as it is. The girl before me now says the same things Anann or Morgan might have, long ago. But because your soul is inherently that of a goddess, you have a special affinity for the domains of the Morrigan."

"I know the myths, but what is the truth of the Morrigan?"

"The truth of _you_ ," Badb corrected. "You held dominion over battle and war, shapeshifting and magic. These dominions are intrinsic to your soul. Your magic as a witch should have an affinity to combative magics and shapeshifting. You have likely already noticed how much easier it is for you to learn new magics compared to your purely mortal peers."

Hermione couldn't argue Badb's speculation. She had attributed her talent to single-minded focus, but even when she wasn't really trying, her spells held more power than other students' work.

"Every witch or wizard has magical channels that allow them to funnel magic from the world into their individual magic containers," Badb explained. "Magical containers differ in size from person to person. The ones your people call squibs have magical containers that are broken from magical channels, leaving them unable to access their innate ability. Your magical container will be extremely large, but you must grow into it. Witches are not born able to use their magic to the fullest extent. Your magic matures along with you."

Hermione listened, rapt. She had read sparse notes on the theory of magical containers, but modern witches and wizards were not sure how they were able to channel magic, or why some people were so much more powerful than others. Badb had neatly confirmed one theory among thousands that had been created over centuries of study.

"The wand I gifted you will be capable of more powerful magic than any mortal-made stick," Badb continued. "However, beware of thieves. While only one of the le Fay house can wield it, and only one with the soul of my sister can wield it at its full power, there are many who would attempt to use it or dissect it for their own ends. Powerful wands are known to change hands often."

Hermione frowned, thinking of ways to dissuade thieves. One more project to add to her list. But she had more questions to ask before she awoke and got to work. "Is there a way to become a goddess again?"

Badb frowned, looking eerily similar to her sister. "Your body is forever bound to mortality. There are ways for the body to become immortal, but you would not be able to ascend to goddesshood as you once were. You would have only an immortal human body, unable to channel the might of a goddess. The flesh of gods is too different to handle our power. That is why you will never be as powerful as you were originally. The mortal flesh is too weak, even if the soul is the same."

Hermione wouldn't give the idea up just yet, despite her sister's surety. Research and experimentation wouldn't hurt. The draw of returning to her full might was too powerful to ignore.

"Do you have any other questions?" Badb asked.

"A few," Hermione replied. "You said I had dominion over shapeshifting. Do you mean I can become an animagus?"

Badb smiled, pleased. "Yes—however, you will need to go about it as other witches do among your kind. Your immortal flesh could change at will, but you must train your mortal body to do as you once did effortlessly. You will also be restrained to one shape, but I suspect it will be formidable," she said, smirking toothily.

"You know something I don't," Hermione said suspiciously.

"I know many things you don't," Badb corrected, sharp teeth hidden behind a curved grin. "Some things, I believe, will be more enjoyable to observe when you do not know the things I do. Yes," she decided, "I will very much enjoy when you discover your animal shape. Morgan was quite amusing to watch as she trained to attain her raven form."

"So will I be a raven also, then?"

"Not at all," the goddess laughed. "No, I suspect each incarnation of your soul is gifted with a different form Anann used to take. It could be several different creatures, but I believe I know exactly what you will be."

"And I assume you won't tell me for your own amusement," Hermione rolled her eyes. "I thought having a goddess for a sister would be different than normal mortal siblings. But now, I just think any kind of sibling, mortal or immortal, is an expert at annoying the other sibling."

"Well, of course," Badb agreed, "I have known you for thousands of years. No other can cause as much irritation to you as I."

Hermione went silent for a few moments. Finally, she asked, "What was Macha like?"

Badb's smiled dropped from her face, her expression changing from one of laughter to solemnity and ancient fury. "I wish you could remember her, Anann. She was the only one of us that had a kernel of good in her dark heart." Badb turned her face to the sea, watching the waves beat the shore. "You and I, we are the same. We care for each other, perhaps for a few others, chosen very carefully. But we are born in bloodshed and battle. We may never know the true warmth of a shared heart, for our power has no knowledge of empathy. You are War and I am Death, but for all our power combined, we could not save her life. And her life was beautiful, Anann," Badb said, carving sigils into the bare skin of her leg with one claw. Ichor seeped from the wounds as she inscribed something Hermione couldn't understand.

"The people of these isles feared the three of us, but she was the only one they both feared and adored. While she governed battles of the heart and soul, death of love and decay of honor… she also knew, better than anyone, which mortals had the most heart, the most soul. Those mortals drew her like a pale moth to flame. She treasured them, her dark worshippers. And they loved her with all the power of their fragile, mortal beings."

"Eventually," Badb continued, "she consumed her mortals. But they all lived long lives, and they died with love in their eyes and ecstasy in their souls."

"Consumed?" Hermione questioned.

Badb glanced at her from the corner of her eyes, almost grinning. "Yes, consumed. Our Macha had a taste for human flesh."

"Do we—do you eat people?" Hermione asked slowly.

Throwing her head back in laughter, Badb answered, "No, Anann, I do not. And neither did you. Macha had odd tastes."

Hermione didn't doubt Badb's insistence that Macha had been the one with the most goodness, but it made her wonder. If Macha had been the one of the three sisters with the best heart, and she was a cannibal, but how bad did that make Anann and Badb? There was no harm in asking, she figured.

At the young witch's wry question, Badb cackled. When the goddess laughed, her lips curved in the same smile as Hermione's, and their golden eyes were lit with the same dark humor. "It does imply we are rather bad, doesn't it?"

"I think rather bad may be an understatement," Hermione grinned.

"Oh, I wish you could meet her," Badb said, sobering quickly at the thought. "She was strange, but she was ours."

Hermione grabbed her sisters clawed hand, melancholy weighing her. She wished she could have met her third sister, too.

"Do you feel it?" Badb asked, tapping a bloody claw to her sternum. "The beast?"

The witch jerked in surprise. "You have it too?" she demanded.

"Yes," Badb confirmed, golden eyes distant. She dug her claw deeper into her skin. Ichor beaded. "That is her anger. We were never meant to be two. Her essence is inside us, trapped in our bodies. The beast you feel within is Macha."

"Can we get her out? Bring her back?" Hermione asked desperately, her own hand fisted in her nightshirt.

"No," Badb answered, voice empty. "For it is not truly _her_. It is the fury her destruction left in our world. It is the power Merlin could not steal, that which bound her to her dominion and these isles. When her soul was sundered from her immortal body, we felt the recoil of her outrage. It manifested within both of us as a beast. Be cautious of it, Anann. In your other shape, it will be at the fore. You must learn to contain it. You must master it, or else the anger of her ending will consume you."

Hermione looked down at herself, as if she could peer through fabric and flesh to see the monster. Gold eyes blinked at her from within.

"It is our punishment for failing to save her," Badb informed. "We who were always three became two, and the world despised us due to it."

"But we who were three are now two, and all we can do is treasure each other more," Hermione whispered.

Badb squeezed her sister's hand. "That is all we can do," she agreed.


	18. Chapter 18

**So, I did some things last night. I went through all of the early chapters and combined quite a few of them. I essentially just halved the amount of chapters in this story for 34 to, after this update, 18. A lot of readers have been bothered by the weird lengths, and I think it was scaring people off, so I consolidated most of my early chapters into bigger chapters. Very little was changed in the chapters themselves. Some scenes I added some connective tissue to link them together so it reads easier. A re-read of everything really isn't needed unless ya'll are dying to see they very few changes I made. Thanks for everyone who has hung in there and made it this far! After looking at all of that earl stuff, I realized how hard it may have been for ya'll to get past the weird, changing lengths. Hopefully it's better now.**

 **ALSO I FIXED THE FLU/FLOO THING! I've been saying I would do it, and I did it!**

 **And something funny I want to share: a guest review called this a goddess-curb-stomp fic. I loved that. The review wasn't meant to be complimentary, but I seriously laughed to myself after reading that description of this very OOC Hermione.**

 **As an apology for essentially rewiring the first 12 chapters, I'm updating early! This chapter is going to introduce several different OCs for Slytherin. They have minor parts to play, so don't get concerned over their addition. As always, please review, and happy reading :)**

Hermione woke with a start. Her wand was buzzing.

When school had begun, she had set simple alarm spells, so her wand would vibrate her to wakefulness at five in the morning every day. She had gone to bed the night before at five pm, so she had achieved her goal of a full twelve hours. However, she wished she had aimed for more. Then, she could have spent more time with Badb, learning more about their lives before Merlin and their dead sister, Macha. The phantom pressure of the goddess's hand comforted Hermione.

She rose and showered, appreciating the scalding cascade of water down her body, rinsing her mind and heart as well as her hair. It was her first day to go to class after the attack, to face the students who had no doubt concocted whatever stories about her. Today was not the day to morosely remember her departed sister. Today was the day to be Heir Black.

Dressing quickly, she donned the school uniform, accented with her new embroidered robes. The Black family sigil, designed in black thread and real silver spun incredibly fine, was impossible not to notice when the light hit it. She fixed the le Fay pearl drops in her ears and slid the Black bracelet on her wrist, attiring herself in pureblood armor to face the students.

The girl in the bathroom mirror was the same creature that had been sorted into Slytherin, but with a sharper edge. Her eyes were cold gold to contrast the silver she had adorned herself in. She chose to leave her hair wild and unbound, the curls falling to the bottom of her ribs. She would tame no part of herself today. It was still strange to see the wild creature the dissolved enchantment had revealed, but she felt the rightness of it in her bones. Her hair and eyes were no longer brown, but she was still the same on the inside.

She didn't miss her old features. She liked the gold eyes that her grandmother had had, that her sister shared. She liked the sable curls that framed her face in wild snarls, resistant to spells and combs alike. Hermione wasn't prone to vanity, but she did know that the face she saw in the mirror was one she liked. Other people may not like it, but they didn't have to; they just had to respect what was in her head.

Curiously, she wondered how her housemates would react to her new looks. They were used to the mousy haired muggleborn, not the black-haired, formally recognized heir. Many people had claimed she now resembled her infamous aunt. Would they see Bellatrix Lestrange when they looked at Hermione Black? Or would they see through her new coloring to the girl beneath, the same one they had deceived with their welcoming attitude.

Leaning forward, she traced one finger along her eyebrow. Did her father have the same ones? Maybe she looked like one of his parents. She hadn't yet mustered the nerve to actually find portraits of the Black family to compare to herself, despite her apparent similarity to Bellatrix. She wouldn't admit to herself that she was frightened she wouldn't look like any of them. She had already had to contend with not fitting into her muggle family, so the thought of not fitting into her magical family caused her heart to stutter in a way she didn't like.

Fingers brushing her cheekbone, she frowned. Narcissa had the same cheekbones, although their similarities stopped there. Then, a sickening realization occurred to her: Draco also had the same cheekbones. She scowled at her reflection, suddenly unhappy with her appearance. Unfortunately, cheekbones were not something she could change, even though any vague resemblance to that insufferable prat made her cringe. If anyone else pointed it out, she resolved to hex them.

In their beds, Pansy, Daphne, Tracey, and Millicent all slept soundly, comfortable in their sweet dreams. Their gift baskets lay unpacked all over the room, clearly enjoyed by the young witches. She ignored the new letters on her nightstand, well aware of what they were. The girls could apologize all they wanted. Hermione felt no need to accept.

Before she began throwing hexes at their sleeping bodies, she gathered her books and left the room. The common room was another daunting prospect, but she discovered upon entering that she had worried needlessly. The scene of her near murder did not affect her. She felt safe, knowing Marcus would soon be dead. He would hold no power over her ever again. Heart thrumming at the thought, she wondered when Narcissa would accomplish her request.

Settling in the chair beneath the portrait of Morgan le Fay, her former incarnation, she began to revise her goals list. Long term goals included freeing Sirius Black, somehow seeing her mother in person, and bonding with her sister. Short term goals were much more varied. She needed to bespell her bed until it was a fortress; cultivate new alliances among her house; oversee the assets of her family name; talk to Professor Snape; avoid Dumbledore and the elder Malfoys, if possible; and create a comprehensive list of research topics, among many other things, in order of most to least importance. She sighed. She had a lot of reading ahead of her.

"I can tell by your wand that you now know the truth," a voice whispered from behind her.

Hermione turned to face the portrait. "Yes," she confirmed. "Odd that I am talking to a collection of my former incarnation's memories, but I have dealt with odder these past weeks. You are strangely nice, considering I know what we are truly like."

Morgan le Fay's eyes glittered in dark amusement. Hermione could see just how much the adult witch favored Badb. "I treat myself a little differently than I do others, witch. I may just be a painting, but I am activated with the trapped memories of my likeness."

"Do you remember anything that could help me?" Hermione asked.

Morgan shook her head sadly. "Think, dear girl. Would you entrust any memories of importance to a portrait?"

"You're right," Hermione nodded, amused despite herself. Or amused because of herself?

"However, there are a few things I can do for you. I will keep an eye out for you in the castle. Paintings hear many things in Hogwart's halls."

"Excellent idea," Hermione muttered, appeased. "A network of spies would be very useful." She didn't really have a need for spies, but gossip often became blackmail, and she would never turn down an opportunity to have power over another student. "Wasn't one of the earlier headmasters a Black? Would it be possible to recruit him as well?"

"Phineas," Morgan admitted with a sneer, "is repulsively loyal to the school, despite how much he abhorred his occupation as headmaster. He is unlikely to share the secrets Dumbledore speaks in his office."

"Hmm… it doesn't hurt to try and convince him. Tell him what Dumbledore did. Our esteemed current headmaster purposefully left my father, the male heir to the Black name, to rot in prison. Then, he turned a blind eye to the plot to kill me, the only true Black not in Azkaban, to our ancient family. Maybe that will sway him," Hermione speculated.

Morgan nodded. "I will try, but I make no promises. Your family is a stubborn lot."

"I had to get it from somewhere," Hermione murmured, refocusing on her task as the portrait left her frame.

She spent a good hour creating a comprehensive outline of topics, with main headers, bullet points, and sub points. No one could ever fault her organizational skills. The next few years of studying would be very busy indeed, between preparing for classes and her own research. With her pressing task of revising her goals and research plans completed, she settled in to skim the notes she had created weeks before to refresh herself for classes; it took only minutes, except potions. Professor Snape was an exacting teacher. Then, she began to read the book she had snagged from the pile in her room. She had only been reading for a half hour about pureblood society, to prepare for her lesson Sunday, before the another student ambled into the common room.

A boy, his hair neatly tied at his nape, took several minutes to pull a chair before the fire, trying to avoid the Scottish chill that had descended over Hogwarts. It was several more minutes before he finally realized Hermione was watching him.

"G'morning," Alim Shafiq muttered in surprise when he discovered he was not alone. " _Bloody hell!_ " he cursed when he realized that not only was he not alone, but that he was looking into the bright gold eyes of Hermione Black, the infamous heir to the two greatest houses in Britain.

"Shafiq," Hermione greeted cordially.

"Gra—I mean, Black," Alim fumbled, his tanned skin paling as she continued to stare, eyes blank and unbothered.

"I received a letter from your head of house," she said conversationally. "Your grandfather welcomed me to the fold and invited me for tea over the summer."

"Oh, yeah," Alim stuttered, "he's super interested in getting to know you. He said he knew your, uh, grandfather. You know. Orion Black."

"I know now," Hermione said. She actually didn't really know much about her family yet, but her quick temper led her down the shortsighted path of anger. Despite the danger lurking beneath her words, her face remained carefully composed. "Does everyone in our house know, as well?"

Alim was normally confident, but Hermione Black unnerved him to the core. He knew he could beat her in a duel—she was only a firstie, after all—but her sheer potential political power had led his grandfather to counsel him to stay wary and cordial. Also, Slytherin gossiped; he had heard what Marcus had looked like after what was rumored to be Fiendfyre had gotten ahold of him. Alim had no interest in becoming barbeque, even though he doubted a first-year had managed to summon the dark flames. Whatever had happened in the common room while he had been in bed, Marcus was still in St. Mungo's over a week later. That was enough to keep Alim cautious when it came to dealing with the skinny first-year. "You mean, like, does everyone know you're not really a— a muggleborn?"

"Yes," she answered quietly. "Does everyone know the truth?"

"Yes, everyone has known about you since it—the attack—since _it_ happened."

"I see," she replied calmly.

"Is it all true, then?" Shafiq asked, his curiosity winning out over his nerves when she went several minutes without revealing the infamous Black insanity. His aunt had been in Bellatrix's year. The stories had made his skin crawl. "Are you really the heir to both houses?"

"Yes," Hermione said again. "I was declared the official heir to the Black and le Fay houses yesterday at the ministry."

Alim whistled, shaking his head. "So it's set in stone then, is it? Heir Black and le Fay. Hell of a combo, Black."

Her feral smile became a little more human. "I think I agree with you there, Shafiq."

Bolstered by her agreement, Shafiq asked, "So, do you want an apology or what?"

The smile dropped from Hermione's face. "I always thought you were smart. Don't ruin it."

Alim was saved from responding to the subtle threat when another Slytherin entered the common room, followed by several more. They all ceased their tired, early-morning chatter and eyed Hermione warily, inspecting her new robes and jewelry with interest. She cheerfully ignored them and began to pack her books into her bag, uninterested in fielding any more questions until breakfast, when she had to sit among her peers. She supposed she could take her breakfast from the Slytherin table and eat elsewhere, but she didn't want anyone to think her cowardly. Fine-tuning her reputation would take time, time she would have to spend among her housemates.

One of the fifth-year prefects, Castella, was the only early riser brave enough to approach Hermione. The Black witch quirked a brow in question. The girl stared resolutely at her, honey blonde curls captured in one of the green ribbons from Hermione's gift basket. Unlike Hermione's wild hair, Castella had envious, perfect spirals, brushing her collar in neat whorls.

"Thank you for the gifts," the prefect said. Her dark eyes, which normally pierced through younger students, held Hermione's gaze evenly. "Should you ever need my help, it will be my honor as a Swann to aid you."

As a prefect, Castella should have been one of the first lines of defense against Marcus and Draco's plotting. She had been responsible for Hermione's well-being, and she had failed utterly. Hermione as also hurt, despite her best efforts to squash the feeling. Castella had been one of the girls Hermione had falsely considered a friend. The prefect had always been there to answer questions and give advice, but she had shirked her duties and left her charge to break beneath the wands of her housemates.

"What was the most important rule, again?" queried Hermione absently. She twirled a wild curl around the tip of her original wand. Her new wand was tucked into her sleeve, hidden from the curious gazes of her fellow students. "To stick together, right?" She freed the wand from her hair. The threat was clear. "Of course, within the privacy of the dungeon, anyone was fair game. But don't you think my fellow housemates _murdering me_ may have revealed some cracks to the outside?"

Castella's eyes hardened. She had never been the type to admit fault. The entire room's attention was on them, quiet chatter dimming to silence. Several older students began ambling over casually, preparing to intervene.

"Rules are rules," Castella said. "Those two went too far. They should have known better."

"I don't disagree with that," Hermione commented, her voice far too casual. She wasn't lying. She understood that the house she had been sorted into was not the type to watch each other's backs if turning on someone offered an advantage. If she had been a pureblood from the beginning, aware and educated in her duties, she would have done the same as anyone had. She would have let the mudblood burn. But she hadn't been aware or educated, and she had been the one abandoned to her fate, even as she had stupidly waited for someone to help. She kicked herself daily for not knowing any better; for letting herself open her heart and trust. "But you're a prefect. Shouldn't you have been one of the first people to stand up for me, mudblood or not?"

Castella blinked at the slur in surprise; everyone thought the word, but even Slytherins rarely said it. The girls, especially, usually held their tongues. "Marcus is the heir to his house. So is Draco. Things aren't as simple when the Sacred Twenty-Eight are involved."

"Things are run differently here in the dungeons," agreed an approaching seventh year, coming to lean lazily against the wall several feet from the girls. Hermione had never spoken to him, but she knew Roland Avery was also a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. She had received a letter from his grandfather as well, asking her about a marriage contract, which she had yet to respond to.

"I have known from the beginning that Slytherin is governed by aspiring family-career politicians, and not by authority declared by outside figures, however helpful prefects may be. What you seem to be assuming is that the complex power structure somehow mitigates the grave insult every single one of you have caused me."

Thorfinn Rowle, another seventh year, laughed. He and Draco shared the same coloring, but Thorfinn was all Nordic square edges, where Draco was French angles. He was also Sacred Twenty-Eight. "Do you read dictionaries for fun, then? You may not be a mudblood any longer, but you're still a swot, I see. Call it what you want, Black. But Flint is gone, dead this morning. Malfoy is still around, if you want to go after him next. Get your revenge on the person who actually did something, not the people who did nothing."

The common room had slowly filled with her housemates, all of them tittering at the customary Thorfinn response: offensively truthful. Only Blaise Zabini, who was notorious for sleeping late, and Verbena Selwyn, who spent every morning showering for an hour, were unaccounted for. Everyone stared at Hermione, waiting so see what she would do next.

"Your 'nothing' would have killed me just as surely as someone's something might have," Hermione replied coldly. "I bled and screamed on this very floor. You are all here now, so what kept you from coming then?"

"It's just different for us," a third year named Opal Loras insisted. She was well-known for being unable to keep her mouth shut, which had led to numerous spats among the girls of several different years. Hermione noticed the girl had a faint shimmer to her skin, as if she had been experimenting with one of Hermione's gifts. "You would know if you had been born into it like all of us had!"

"Merlin," Roland cursed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Opal, shut the hell up, for once."

"It's true!" she carried on, oblivious. "Are we all just going to let a girl we thought was a muggleborn lecture us like a professor? What makes her more special than any of us? Most of us are purebloods, too!"

"Firstly," Kent Travers, a sixth year, began, "she's Sacred Twenty-Eight twice over, and the only heir to both seats. Your family is known for marketing broom polish. There's quite a bit of difference in your social level compared to hers, Opal. So don't go there unless you want to irritate everyone in this room."

Opal fisted the hand holding her wand. "I was still born into the right family. Can you say the same?" she sneered, looking to Hermione.

"I was born into a better family," Hermione replied, fingering her wand, preparing herself just in case. "Magic runs stronger in my blood than in anyone else's in this room. But you're not wrong on one part. You've known you're a pureblood your entire life, and I have not. That is true. But shouldn't you have higher marks, then? Magic has always been a part of your life, and I have only known of it for around three months now. Yet only two weeks past I saw you struggle to do a second-year spell I mastered three weeks ago on my own. I may have been born in the muggle world, but you're less of a witch than I am, Opal Loras. Open your mouth again, and I'll prove it."

Opal's face turned red. She looked around the room for someone to come to her defense, but no one made a move to help.

"Black isn't wrong, love," Thorfinn drawled from the couch. He was sprawled across its entire length, his feet crossed at the ankles as they dangled over the arm, the image of insouciant grace. "You've barely passed every year. Pick on a different firstie than our resident Morgan le Fay."

 _Oh,_ Hermione thought to herself, _if only he knew._

"Let's remain civil," Roland called out, calming the room as it burst into restrained laughter. "Opal, maybe you should work harder on learning what silence is. Until then, please refrain from looking Hermione Black in the eye. She's looking quite peeved, and I think you may be why. Does anyone who isn't Opal or, hopefully, Thorfinn, want to say something before breakfast?"

"I do have something to say, Avery! Thanks for reminding me," Thorfinn said, sitting up on the couch. His pale hair, kept long and shaggy, fell around his strong jaw. Hermione noticed several witches sigh breathily and beseeched Badb for strength to resist killing everyone.

Kent dramatically rolled his eyes. "You asked for this," he dramatically accused Roland. "This is your fault. I'm going to owl your head of house to formally request payment for the trip to St. Mungo's loony bin I'll be making after hearing to whatever that oaf says. You brought this upon all of us!"

"Stop whining," Thorfinn ordered, pointing a finger at Kent. "I know where you sleep, little girl."

"Get on with it, Thorfinn," Roland sighed, cutting off Kent's dramatics. "I would like to get to the food while it's still warm."

Thorfinn looked at Hermione, blue eyes meeting narrowed gold. The quidditch captain smiled rakishly. "Everyone in this room knows the heads of our houses will arrange betrothals to someone else in this room. Or, if you're unlucky, like Miss Imogen Blishwick, -" the girl in question breathed sharply in anger "—then you'll be sold off to a new-wealth Ravenclaw. Really, love, Webster Bragge is a good enough sort, I expected you to do much worse. Don't look so sour."

"Thorfinn," Roland chided.

"Okay, Avery, don't knot your knickers before noon. Just stating the obvious. It's fair I educate Black on how things are always done. She's the pick of the litter, although all you ladies are exceedingly lovely, I promise. So," he said, his attention turning solidly on Hermione, "which one of us poor sods do you think you'll end up marrying, love?"

Castella, since she was the youngest prefect, and Roland, who felt responsible, spent the next hour trying to remove splinters and tufts of stuffing from Thorfinn after Hermione blasted him backwards through the couch. The rest of Slytherin went merrily to breakfast.


	19. Chapter 19

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The day progressed normally. It made Hermione suspicious.

Most of her professors hardly acknowledged her at breakfast. She had expected covert stares or whispers, especially from more Light-minded teachers like Professor McGonagall. But most of the professors at the head table didn't spare a single glance in her direction. Even Professor Snape ignored her, although Professor Flitwick waved happily. Dumbledore nodded, but she pretended not to see him. Only the students really acted differently, but she didn't expect curious students to do well at hiding their reactions anyway.

Students from the other three houses seemed to have little to say. A few notable Ravenclaws, purebloods all, nodded to her when they normally ignored her or outright glared because her marks were higher. Hufflepuffs were always friendly, so she couldn't tell if they thought any differently of her. The only Hufflepuff that seemed to care was Ernie Macmillan. He stiffly greeted her as she left the breakfast hall, but the unwillingly given polite gesture curdled his face like sour milk. She figured his head of house had heard of Ernie's father's public dramatics, and had forced the son to atone for the father's sins. She looked forward to Ernie's continued forced friendliness; anything that bothered that pompous family sat well with her.

Gryffindor reacted most unpleasantly to seeing her back in school. Before, they had treated her with gentle confusion, unsure how to act around a muggleborn Slytherin, positive she was being horribly abused by her housemates. Their cautious manners had eroded into sneering glares and turned backs. Which was fine with her; she hadn't been too interested in befriending any of them anyway. There had never been a tolerable Gryffindor intriguing enough to speak to outside of class, and she hadn't needed a new reason for Slytherins to gossip about her. Being friends with Gryffindors was as good as painting a target on her back herself.

The Weasley twins spent all of breakfast covertly glancing at her from their table across the great hall, and she sighed unhappily. _That_ was something she really didn't want to deal with. The boys were unrepentant trouble makers, but she had no quarrel admitting they were both very talented wizards. She didn't trust her abilities to defeat either of them in a one-on-one duel, and she outright disbelieved she could defeat both of them at once. Best to avoid those two, if she could.

Within her own house, she had made it clear at breakfast that despite her gifts, she was not planning on befriending any of the witches in her house again. She sat in between Theo and Blaise, directly across from Draco, who looked at her nervously and tried not to catch her eyes. Greg and Vincent sat on either side of Draco, their bulk keeping the pale boy squished between them like cream filling. The boys looked anxious when she insinuated herself into their group, but they accepted it well enough. Breakfast passed with stilted conversation, during which she discovered that she actually _liked_ the first year boys. She was irritated with that realization and endeavored to remind herself of why she intended to hold herself away from her fellow Slytherins.

Theo sat beside her in class. She could have sat next to Draco and begun to devise her tasks for him, but she was afraid he would try to talk to her as he had last night, despite his obvious fear. She had considered sitting beside Blaise, but his mouth had never remained closed for more than fifteen seconds his entire life. Theo was the obvious choice. He was intelligent enough to figure out each lesson without drawing the teacher's attention, and, most importantly, he was reliably quiet.

Before her attack, she had already been several weeks ahead in all of her coursework. She followed the motions of each class as she always had, patiently listening to lecture before executing the spell perfectly on her first try. Nonchalantly, she eyed her housemates' work as well. There would be no Opals in her year if she could help it. Anyone who looked to be struggling, she would make a note of to privately offer help later. She refused to be associated with morons. She wasn't a Gryffindor.

Thankfully, her classmates were all decent witches and wizards. Even Greg and Vincent managed to get their spells right within the first ten tries, at least. She wasn't surprised. Slytherin was the house of ambition. They may not have the brightest students, but they were no slouches, either. She felt a tingle of pride to be in Slytherin, the first warm feeling toward her house in weeks.

The next days passed much the same. Opal glared impotently from her spot across the common room; Hermione sat with the boys at breakfast; suspiciously normal classes throughout the day; and at night, she sat in her chair and worked on her research. She had finished the book on pureblood customs, moving on to the next item on the list: The Wizengamot. She had charmed the covers of all the books she kept to innocuous titles on history or creature lore. It had taken some clever finagling to find and adjust a charm that would work for her, since charms that fooled other people for days on end without sputtering out were a bit more complicated than her talents allowed. However, she stayed up late several nights to figure it out, wasting precious time she could spend with her sister. The last thing she wanted was for people to begin asking questions when they saw what she read so diligently.

The weekend allowed Hermione the freedom to make the trek up to the owlry to send correspondence to Scrimgeour and Murdoch. She needed to discuss how to release her father, and she wanted an update on her stolen assets. The head of the DMLE had yet to respond to any of the letters she had sent to him or his assistant, and she had sent him a letter every day since she had returned to school. She felt as though he was avoiding her. As for the letter to Murdoch, Lucius had never owled her to let her know how his conversation with the Minister had gone, so she wanted to know the status of her finances. She knew Murdoch would have kept a personal eye on things for her; he had been nearly sickeningly ingratiating when she had met him.

A letter to her mother burned a hole in her pocket also, ready to be sent, but she didn't owl it just yet. She still had more thinking to do on that subject. Her mother was one person her feelings twisted themselves in knots about. Perhaps Badb would have advice. Although, her sister wasn't exactly the type to either understand or empathize over complicated feelings; she was more of a physical confrontation sort than a discussion based problem solver.

Hermione also set up shop in the library, where she had resources and reference books to the stilted, medieval jargon of her Wizengamot book. Draco, Theo, and Blaise took turns accompanying her, occasionally joined by Greg or Vincent, all of them taking it upon themselves to keep the curious people of other houses away. They had easily become her go-to group for any sort of social interaction. Their heads of house, or, in Blaise's case, mother, had been thrilled to hear that Astarte Black had chosen them as her companions. No one would turn away such a powerful ally, even considering her young age. And if anyone could nurture an alliance built on years of companionship using their child, even better.

When Hermione finished thinking of tasks for Draco on Saturday night, he made an effort to thoroughly do each thing she asked as quickly as possible. By Sunday morning, when Hermione's lesson with Narcissa loomed, Draco had created a summer calendar marking each tea she had been invited to, ordered a jewelry box to hold her heirlooms, hung her tapestry of Elladora Black, scrubbed her cauldron, and gone into the owlry to find the shed primary feather from each owl species present at Hogwarts. The last task she only included to see if he could manage it, avoiding curfew patrols and successfully finding all of the various feathers. She was reluctantly impressed when he presented her with a bag full of feathers early Sunday morning, deep circles under his eyes.

Keeping Draco up all night completing menial tasks served its purpose perfectly. When Narcissa arrived before lunch, he was too exhausted to join their lessons, retiring to his dorm. Hermione knew Narcissa worried about her son incessantly. Preventing her from seeing him would remind Narcissa of the kind of person she was dealing with. It also saved Hermione from having to listen to her elder cousin coo over her 'darling Draco' for several hours.

Thanks to her reading, Hermione was well able to follow Narcissa's strict instructions on how to act. Pureblood etiquette was complicated and complex. She was never to accept jewelry from a man unless a courtship or betrothal had been accepted. Finger food was only acceptable in private settings or at teas. The list went on and on. Narcissa, once she realized Hermione knew all of the rules, spent the remaining hour teaching Hermione how to walk.

Apparently, pureblooded women were expected to walk so their steps fell one in front of the other gracefully. It was not easy to learn; Hermione had never been particularly graceful. At least pureblooded women weren't expected to know how to ride a broom. It would be a battle to get her back on such a rickety death trap ever again. She had nearly incinerated the school's practice broom in a childish tantrum. She was talented at many things, largely academic, so she was not upset over any potential career in professional quidditch going down the drain. Her housemates had laughed themselves sick during Madame Hooch's first lesson as they watched Hermione's broom buck all over the pitch.

Hermione wobbled again, and Narcissa clucked her tongue. "You're getting better, at least. Now you won't stalk around like an auror in the ministry anymore."

"I don't know how walking like this is so hard," Hermione complained.

"After years of dancing, it comes naturally," her cousin explained, watching her with eagle eyes to track her progress.

Hermione tipped forward slightly too far. "Dancing?"

Narcissa's eyes widened in surprise. "Have you ever had lessons?"

"No," Hermione answered. "Dancing was never one of my better skills."

"Well," Narcissa said primly. "As soon as you are passable in public, I'll hire an instructor for the summer. Draco's instructor was excellent. Perhaps I'll owl her."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned on her heel to try and walk correctly back across the empty classroom. "I'll take lessons, but I'm not good at things like that." It galled her to admit she wasn't good at something, but she couldn't lie. She was an abysmal dancer, and even worse at sports. If she absolutely had to, she would run, but she had to be in dire straits to move more quickly than a clipped walk. Throwing and catching anything was out of the question. Once, her parents had signed her up for a children's league for football. It had been such a disaster, she scowled at the sight of anything related to the sport.

"You don't seem too graceless," Narcissa commented. "You're young, so your long legs and arms make you seem gangly, but I'm sure you will grow out of it."

She didn't even bother to glare at the insult. She was too busy trying to roll her hips exactly as her cousin had shown her. Her trainers scuffed the stone floor, causing her toe to drag. Narcissa sighed.

The older witch had been horrified when Hermione had arrived to their lesson in casual muggle clothes. "You've been dressed like… _this,_ every weekend?"

"I don't have anything other than my uniforms," Hermione had explained. "This has been good enough."

"I'll owl the seamstress as soon as I leave Hogwarts," Narcissa had promised, averting her eyes from the horrid jeans her cousin wore. She didn't know what sickened her more: the navy, hooded jumper, made of velour; or, the baggy jeans that trailed about Hermione's ankles. "She has your measurements, so it will be quick work to get you normal clothing."

"This _is_ normal," Hermione had argued. She had seen what the other girls wore on the weekends. Long silk dresses, corseted at the waist. The kids of the other houses wore more normal clothing, although still formal compared to muggle wear. The medieval aesthetic was alive and well in Slytherin, even among the students who were not pureblood.

Narcissa had dropped the topic quickly. Hermione suspected even the thought of her being dressed like a muggle for so long needled her into near hysterics. Narcissa was very particular about ensuring her young cousin fit into pureblood society like she had grown up in it.

"Have you made amends with your classmates?" Narcissa asked pointedly.

Hermione nearly tripped at the unexpected question. "Everyone liked the gift baskets," she evaded. "And I've been sitting with Draco every day at lunch."

Narcissa knew she had avoided the question, but let it slide. "Good. He will be a good friend to you."

"I'm sure," Hermione agreed pleasantly. "He's been so helpful."

"He's such a good boy," Narcissa claimed proudly.

Hermione wondered how the witch would feel if she knew that Draco had become her errand boy overnight. It was quite a step down from his previous social position within Slytherin.

"I spoke with Professor Snape. He says your marks are the highest in your year?"

Hermione looked at her cousin sideways. "Yes," she replied, "they are." She had a suspicion her cousin was trying to make conversation like they hadn't threatened or blackmailed each other over the past weeks they had known each other.

"Soon, you will need to talk to the Prophet," Narcissa continued. "If we control who interviews you, we can control the flow of information to the public. My friends have been owling me all week asking about you since the photos from the Ministry were published. Something this interesting hasn't happen since the war."

"I can handle an interview," said Hermione. She focused on placing one foot in front of the other.

"No doubt, your headmaster will insist on doing it here," Narcissa complained. "However, Lucius and I will both be there, as your legal guardians."

Hermione stopped walking and frowned at her cousin. "I do have my muggle family, you know. You may be legal guardian in the magical world, but over the summer I _am_ going home to my mum."

Narcissa smiled widely. "Of course, my dear. I never expected otherwise. It may be wise, however, to spend some weeks at the Manor before the new term starts."

"Maybe," Hermione murmured noncommittally.

"There is also a banquet during hols you should attend," her cousin added. "It's an annual tradition. Anyone who you still need to meet will be there."

Hermione understood the necessity of making connections in her new world. A banquet would be a perfect opportunity to make appointments to speak with the ones in charge of her family's business ventures, as well. "I'll need a dress for that, won't I?"

"I already ordered a set of dress robes for the occasion," Narcissa admitted. "They will look beautiful on you."

So her cousin had known she would agree to attend. Hermione knew her cousin had made the same conclusions she had. She needed to meet more people, further cementing herself into her new society. However, if she matched Draco again like she had on their errands, she was probably going to vomit.

Thankfully, the lesson ended shortly after. Narcissa looked ready to faint from so much exposure to the muggle lifestyle; she quickly made her escape, holding a handkerchief over her mouth.

Hermione's life fell into a comfortable pattern of classes, self-driven research, etiquette lessons, harassing Rufus Scrimgeour by owl post, and conversations with Badb. However, as weeks passed and Christmas break loomed, she began to feel as if things around Hogwarts were winding tighter and tighter from stress. She couldn't figure out why she felt so on edge.

It was a Saturday in the library, two weeks before the advent of winter hols, when she met Harry Potter for the first time since the boats that had escorted them to Hogwarts that first night. She hadn't spoken to him since that journey, so she was quite surprised when his green eyes flared, and he hexed her without warning.


	20. Chapter 20

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Hermione and Theo, her companion of the hour, dived out of the spell's way before Harry finished the words. Her books and notes flew everywhere, scattering over the floor. She identified the spell as the knock-back jinx, recognizing the orange shade, and thanked Badb that Harry was a Gryffindor and therefore too honorable to throw anything dark at them, if he even knew those kinds of curses. If it had been an older Slytherin, or perhaps Ravenclaw, she and Theo would have been in serious trouble. She finally began to make sense of Potter's unintelligible yelling when he stopped casting.

"My _parents_! He killed them! I'll bloody get you if I can't get him-"

"He's gone mad!" Theo whispered to her as one of Potter's jinxes flew wide and caused a bookshelf to wobble precariously. Hermione knew she needed to resolve whatever had twisted Potter's knickers quickly, before the racket summoned any curious students. Or worse, Madame Pince. If his reckless idiocy got her banned from the library, she would retaliate with deadly force.

"What are you shrieking about, Potter!" Hermione demanded, defending herself with her own spell. The minor area spell was technically fifth year work, which was too advanced for her until her magic container grew, but she managed to get enough out of it to achieve her intended effect. She was depending on him not recognizing the spell so he wouldn't be able to respond quickly enough to make a difference. Word got around Hogwarts fast, so within the first few weeks of school, she had known he was a talented wizard, and she didn't want to risk using a spell he knew and could deflect. Potter was pushed over by the force of the spell, which was supposed to make him feel as if he had been sucker punched. While he was disoriented, Hermione disarmed him and conjured rope, which tied his legs together.

Potter squirmed angrily as the young witch stalked to his fallen form, her hair sparking with irritation. "I could guess from your tragic childhood that there may be a few screws loose in your head, Potter," she snarled, pointing her wand at him. "But this is a little much."

His green eyes were venomous. "Shut up! You know what I'm talking about, Black! Don't deny it. Your family is filthy, all of you!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and tightened the knots on his ankles with a wand flick. "My family? Stop wiggling, Potter. You look like a flobberworm. Now, explain. Try to use big boy words."

Normally, she would be nicer to a boy as famous as Harry Potter. Being friendly with influential people was a small sacrifice for potential power, unless they were Malfoys or MacMillans. But not only was he a Gryffindor, he was widely hated among her housemates for the obvious favoritism most teachers showed him. She didn't like many of her housemates, but she still needed most of them to be marginally on her side; befriending Potter was a sure way to avoid that.

He squirmed a bit more, his glasses askew, before finally accepting defeat. "Your father killed my parents," he breathed angrily, the emotion behind his declaration making his voice shake.

The young witch frowned at the suddenly overwhelmed boy, and looked at Theo. She couldn't remember the last time she had been so blindsided, and she had discovered she was rolling in wealth and practical magical royalty mere weeks ago. "What's this rubbish?"

Theo shrugged, calm despite his mussed hair from avoiding Potter's initial attack. He finger-combed it back to its tousled look as he answered. "According to reports from around nine or ten years ago, Sirius Black gave the Potters up to You-Know-Who, killed a bunch of muggles and his childhood friend, Peter Pettigrew, and then was sent laughing all the way to Azkaban."

"I read that in old papers," she said, curling her hair around one finger absently as she thought. She looked back down at Potter. "And you truly believe this shite?"

"Wha—what?" Potter sputtered. "You don't believe it? But Dumbledore told me!"

Hermione shook her head, sending black curls tumbling over her shoulders. "Not really, no. Sirius never got a trial. They found him sobbing at the scene and used that bit of evidence to lock him up. He never got to explain himself. Maybe he did do it, but no one can know for sure until he's released to have a fair trial before the Wizengamot." She had been reading obsessively on the topic for the past week, so she considered herself a bit of an expert on it.

"Fair trial?" Potter parroted.

"Yes, do keep up," she snapped, annoyed by the entire scene. It was extremely lucky no one had interrupted the unfolding drama yet, but it was a Saturday. She sighed gustily when she noticed his grimy glasses. "Do you have personal hygiene, or are all boys truly so dim?" asked the witch rudely, leaning over to cast a spell to clean his glasses.

Potter blinked when his vision became crystal clear. He looked as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

He had said Dumbledore himself let him in on Sirius's supposed reason for being cast in Azkaban. Why was that old man stirring up so much trouble? Hermione had several theories, none of which she liked a single bit. He had left her largely alone, but she should have predicted he would try to meddle in her life. Perhaps she would owl the Malfoys and throw them in between herself and the headmaster.

"You can attack me _after_ I get my father a fair trial, whatever the outcome," she promised, releasing his bonds. "But I won't go easy on you then."

Potter stood to his feet and ashamedly rubbed his neck. "I still don't really believe you," he accused. "I trust Headmaster Dumbledore more than some swotty pureblood Slytherin."

She and Theo exchanged looks, united in their dislike of the headmaster. "Well," she drawled, gathering her things, "that's just one of your many mistakes of the day, I'm sure."

It was Potter's turn to roll his eyes. "I'm not interested in listening to two Slytherins get on to _me_ for trusting Headmaster Dumbledore. You lot follow Snape like he's Merlin himself."

"Better him than a dodgy old man like you," Theo snarked.

"We're leaving now," Hermione interrupted, cutting Potter's defense off. "You've thoroughly ruined whatever peace I would have had here today. You're lucky only I'm usually here on Saturdays while everyone else is off skiving their studies. You would have sent the rumor mill spinning for weeks if anyone else had seen that embarrassing temper tantrum."

Hermione and Theo left Harry Potter sputtering angrily in place, allowing him the honor of cleaning up the remaining mess he had caused. She knew that wasn't the last she would hear from him on the topic. There was little she could do to ease his ire, even if she had felt the need to do so. All that would get him to leave her alone would be to prove Sirius innocent, and she wasn't 100% sure he was innocent in the first place. All she had was a deep-seated need to meet her father, and a hunch that urged her to do her best by him, even if he either didn't know or care that she existed.

She knew there was no else who would fight for Sirius Black's release. It was up to her to figure out the truth. Even if he ended up being guilty, at least she would know it was a sentence passed truly after an honest Wizengamot trial. While she didn't trust the bureaucracy of magical Britain to be either streamlined or uncorrupt, she would work within the legal parameters she had to do what she wanted to. Unless given an opportunity to use a different, less legal way, at least.

The two Slytherins ran into Draco outside of the library. He had been on his way to sit with them and hesitantly pick Hermione's brain over an assignment he needed help with. Theo quickly informed him of Potter's immaturity, Draco clearly relishing every detail. He and Potter's rivalry was well known throughout the school.

"Let's just go to the common room," Hermione advised. "It's been snowing for days, so the fire will be nice. I also want to ask Roland a question about a charm."

"I think Blaise was on the couch when I left," Draco added. "But he was snoring, so I doubt he's finished that potions essay."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm not doing it for him. Professor Snape wrote 'acceptable work, Miss Black' at the bottom of his last assignment I helped him with. We're lucky he didn't give us detention."

"Blaise can do his own homework," Theo muttered. "The wanker is smart enough, he's just lazy."

"I know," Hermione sighed. "But he offered me one of those scones his mother sends from Italy. Not even Professor Snape would get mad at me if I did Blaise's homework for one of those scones."

"I think you underestimate Snape's patience with normal students. You're one of his favorites, no doubt about it. If he treated me like he did you or Draco here, I would have even higher marks than you," groused Theo good naturedly.

"Not quite," Hermione disagreed pointedly. "You're behind me in transfiguration and astronomy, too."

"I think McGonagall fancies you, honestly," complained Draco. "She was always nicer to you before, which is weird since you're not one of her Gryffindors. And she's even weirder around you now!"

"Your real dad was a Gryffindor, wasn't he? Caused an upset with the old families, according to my dad," Theo added.

"Maybe," Hermione shrugged. She would ask Professor McGonagall when she had the time. She didn't really enjoy talking about Sirius with anyone; it made his absence in her life even more obvious and poignant.

"We know your marks are the best," Draco helpfully interjected, sensing how easily the conversation could turn in the wrong direction. "But Theo and I aren't too far behind."

Hermione smiled slightly, happy to needle the boys over course work. "I believe you're both behind Terry Boot at the moment, no?"

"Don't say that swot's name in my presence," Theo grumbled.

"What's wrong with being a swot?" Hermione demanded jokingly.

"Nothing at all," he was quick to say, "but you're at least a Slytherin. I know Ravenclaws are supposed to be the smartest house and all, but something about that one bothers me. He's just so _smug_ to have higher marks than me, I know it."

The trio started down a set of stairs and moaned simultaneously when it began to move beneath their feet, stranding them on a much longer route. "Bloody castle needs to stay still," Draco cursed. "And I don't think Boot gives a rat's arse over you having higher marks than you. He's competing with Hermione, not you."

"You could at least pretend he's competing with me, wanker," responded Theo, insulted.

Their banter was light and easy. At first, when she had begun to hang with their lot, all conversation had been stiff and awkward. Over the past weeks, Hermione had softened toward the boys, even Draco, although she would never forget or forgive his transgression. He would be her errand boy for the rest of his life to make up for even a portion of her pain.

It was hard to be friendless again when she had been alone for so long. The boys ran interference when she was busy, warding off other students. They provided inoffensive company, and sometimes, they even made her laugh. However, she wouldn't make the same mistake she had made with the girls. She never let her guard down fully, keeping her heart shielded, and she was always prepared to cause bloodshed in case one of them betrayed her as the girls had. Her repertoire of less-than-Light spells was growing steadily, although she remained frustrated that her ambition to learn outstripped her power. Badb assured her that her magic container would grow, but that meant little to her when even her new, more powerful wand fizzled and refused to cooperate.

Slytherin itself had grown to accept her, tugging her into the pureblood fold. Family names meant everything to them, and her titles were enough to gain automatic respect, if not warmer emotions. The older students found her threats amusing, enjoying the times she waspishly bantered with the younger years. The younger students made an effort to befriend her, likely at the urge of their families. The only student that continued to act as though she was scum was Opal Loras, but she was hardly relevant anyway.

Her fellow housemates had grown to realize what a helpful resource Hermione Black was, so long as she wasn't peeved off. Students went to her for questions on homework, ideas for schemes, and anything else they could utilize her lethal intellect for. Usually, she could answer their questions and help, if she was in a giving mood. Anyone older than a fourth year would do better to ask someone else, however. While she knew the work in theory, if not in practice, for the next three years, anything beyond that she wasn't much help. She wasn't so far ahead in her classes to skip forward so many years in her studies; her personal research held her back from that.

Most Slytherins had too much pride to ask anyone younger help, if they ever even asked for help at all. But, while Slytherins certainly were prideful, they could usually put that aside in the interest of their studies. Hermione herself choked on her pride at times to approach an older student with questions, but only after she had exhausted all other resources first.

The three entered the common room after Theo spoke the password, which had been changed from _Salazar_ to _parseltongue_ a week ago. Hermione privately believed whoever picked the passwords was quite unimaginative. Even an idiot could guess Salazar within the first few tries. Next thing she knew, they might use the word _pureblood_ as a password, or maybe even _green._ Luckily, the bare stretch of wall was very hard to spot. It had taken Hermione the first two weeks of school before she could find it without walking too far down the hall.

Draco poked Blaise awake while Theo and Hermione settled in front of the fire. Only a few other students were around; the rest were off in the courtyard to either engage in the school-wide snowball fight or to watch and spectate like sports commenters. Hermione had never joined in. She absolutely despised snow. If someone ever hit her with a snowball, she would string them to the Whomping Willow by their toes.

Unfortunately, Roland seemed to have joined his housemates, so she couldn't ask him about the charm. She wasn't surprised. Last Saturday, Gryffindor had thrashed Slytherin and the other houses without question. For all of the combined cunning, intelligence, and cruelty of Slytherin, the Weasley twins remained undefeated. Between snow itself, and then the added threat of Weasleys armed with snow, it would take nothing short of immense bloodshed to get her outside.

Once Blaise was unhappily awoken, the four spent several hours studying and chatting. Hermione steadily ignored Blaise's whines as he beseeched her to help him with his potions essay, until Theo finally thunked him soundly with a book. "Merlin, stop whinging! Do the work yourself. If you had started it when you started whining, you would have finished half an hour ago."

"My work isn't as good as hers," Blaise grumbled, finally pulling his own parchment and ink out.

"Which Professor Snape knows," Hermione informed, attention on the finishing touches of a charms essay due after winter hols. "If he catches me helping you again, he'll give us both detention. I heard Opal saying that detention is supposed to be filled with Gryffindors this week. I, for one, don't want to spend any more time with them than I have to."

"Fair," Blaise admitted sullenly.

"I made all of you study guides for exams," remembered Hermione. She dug through her bag and stolidly ignored the immediate barrage of complaints. "Give Vince and Greg their copies too, if you would, Draco?"

"Merlin, Hermione," Theo said with wide eyes as he took in the color-coded schedule. "How much time did you spend on this?"

"Just a few history classes in a row," she answered. "You didn't notice because you were asleep."

"What else is there to do in there?" griped Blaise. "He's given the same lecture once a week since September."

"Not even you pay attention in that class," Draco accused, "so don't get on us for it!"

She gave him an evil look. "I read the book already over the summer. Did any of you?"

They were saved from explaining themselves to their irate friend when a dripping student opened the door and interrupted with a loud, sad exhale. Other students began to tromp into the common room after him, soaked and dismal. "Lost again?" Theo asked a passing second year.

"I don't want to talk about," the boy answered, glum. Face pinched in discomfort, he shook melting snow out of the leg of his pants.

Thorfinn Rowle stalked into the common room, shaggy hair dripping. A thunderous scowl twisted his handsome face into the picture of thwarted fury. "On Salazar's grave, I'll send every bloody budger I see straight at their bloody heads!"

Roland followed his friend, sitting heavily on the couch. He flicked his wand to wick the water away from his clothing. "That was tragic," he stated. A chorus of groaning agreement met his words.

"Strategy means _nothing_ when it comes to those two," Thorfinn scowled. "Every plan we have falls apart."

"They thrive on chaos," Kent Travers agreed. He was sporting a nasty scratch. "And I swear, they put rocks in their snowballs on purpose."

"They just really don't like you, Kent," another seventh year boy threw in. Caspar Rookwood splayed his legs out and crossed his arms, long body taking up more room than he needed. "Ever since you tripped that little brother of theirs, they've made a point to target you."

Kent frowned. "Which one? I got the youngest and the prefect, too."

Thorfinn rolled his eyes, scowl deepening. "Take your pick, wanker."

Hermione returned to her book, shaking her head. The antics of the older students were always amusing, even if she didn't approve of their disregard for schoolwork. The boys of the quidditch team sometimes managed to draw a quick smile from her with their arguments. One thing about being in Slytherin was that no one could ever complain about a lack of witty comebacks. Unless someone considered Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, boys who were as loyal to their housemates as they were stupid. And they were very, very loyal.

She had gotten to know everyone in her house to some degree. For whatever reasons of their own, either political or personal, the seventh years had taken an interest in her. The boys loved to tease her, which she allowed only because they would trounce her in a duel, and the girls enjoyed talking about obscure customs and spellwork. The latter had proved useful several times; it gave her half a mind to ask one older girl for dueling lessons.

Other than the boys in her grade, which she now loosely considered friends, she would say the older boys were people she enjoyed speaking to the most within her house. Thorfinn Rowle, Roland Avery, Caspar Rookwood, Edwin Wilkes, Bram Barberus, and Janis Herrnstein were the seventh year boys. She spoke to Thorfinn and Roland the most often, and they sought her out the most to ask questions about Black investments or whatever else took their fancy. Caspar and Bram were nice enough, and Edwin kept mostly to himself. Janis was set to graduate early to begin an astronomy apprenticeship somewhere in Russia, so she rarely even saw him, he was so busy.

There were a lot more sixth year boys, but they mostly kept to the other older years. Out of them, Kent Travers was the most talkative, but he was well known for his overwrought dramatics, so she mostly ignored him.

Unfortunately, not all of the boys would allow her to ignore them.

"Hey! Bellatrix junior!"

She just knew Thorfinn was talking to her, but she kept reading, hoping he would move on and leave her alone. But she had no such luck.

"You know I'm talking to you, Black!"

She sighed and looked up. After she had used his body to redecorate the common room, he had only begun to tease her more, purposefully seeking her out in the common room or at meal times. She suspected he enjoyed riling her. "I'll use your intestines as garland for Christmas, Rowle," she threatened darkly. He often used that particular nickname; he could tell she hated it.

"Only if you use that voice when you do it, love," he winked.

"She's _twelve_ , Thorfinn," Roland chastised. Roland tried to keep his friend in check, but everyone knew he rarely succeeded. Hermione would be surprised if there were more than ten girls in the older years that did not know Thorfinn Rowle carnally.

"She'll grow," Thorfinn rebutted, unrepentant.

Hermione knew he wasn't being completely serious. However, she had noticed Slytherin had a creepy culture of 'understandings.' They never did anything beyond the pale when the age difference was significant, but many students kept track of who they got on well with, making sure to let their Head of House know for the purpose of marriage contracts. The weird, medieval habit of arranging marriages was one aspect of pureblood culture that did not sit well with Hermione. Despite Theo's odd insistence of casually hinting on who she would pair with well, Hermione made a concerted effort to not think of her future in that light.

An older girl thwacked him upside the head. "Stop preying on the firsties," Sabine Selwyn ordered. "My sister is almost the same age. If I hear about you going after any girl under fifth year, I'll owl your mother myself, and I'll be very _descriptive_."

"No need for that," Roland quickly intervened. "I'll keep an eye on him." Everyone knew Sabine Selwyn was not a girl to cross, between her filthy insults and quick wandwork. Hermione admired her greatly.

"Anyways," Thorfinn drawled, "Black. You're nice and swotty. How would you suggest we win for once?"

"Oh?" Hermione asked acerbically, shutting her book. "You're going to ask a girl for help?" The best way to manage Thorfinn was to give in to his demands, so he found new entertainment sooner. But Hermione had never been good at handling her temper, so she always impulsively fought with the older boy. Roland often accused her of intentionally giving him migraines.

"Let's be diplomatic," Roland said, eyeing his friend and Hermione Black in turn. "We've been doing so well these past few weeks."

"Wrong," Kent disagreed. "Sabine called me an arse-licking prat two days ago! Diplomacy is dead, and Sabine Selwyn killed it!"

"Travers, if you don't find your spine, I'll shove my hand up your gaping arsehole and yank it out for you," Sabine hissed threateningly.

" _Merlin_ , Sabine, we were all being so civil for once," Roland groaned, "I swear, one day I'll read about you in the Prophet. Do us all a favor and don't be the next Slytherin thrown in Azkaban, yeah?"

"Yes, Black, I'm asking a girl," Thorfinn interjected before Sabine turned her lethal attention on his friend. "I asked Selwyn here, since she's the good sort to ask about casual murder, but her idea of putting glass shards in the snowballs seemed a little much. I'm not keen to get anyone kicked off my team my last year, especially not for a snowball fight."

"We'll see how you feel when the Weasleys slaughter us next week, as well," Sabine snapped.

"I don't think Sabine's idea is too bad," Hermione said, considering the thought while she tapped her wand to her chin. She never set her wand down. "Something like that would definitely escalate the battle, though. Maybe instead of glass, you could use splinters? That's harder to claim as purposeful."

"Salazar, you women are bloody monsters," Roland muttered, looking between the petite seventh year girl and Hermione warily. "I'm going to find a nice, fit Hufflepuff to marry. She won't kill me in my sleep, at least." He frowned to himself. "I think."

"I know you, Black," Thorfinn argued, ignoring his friend. "You've got some sort of idea how to get those two wankers, preferably an idea that won't get our lot hauled to Dumbledumb's office. The way you look at them, you've got all sorts of plans in that swotty head of yours."

She couldn't deny it. She had fantasized about putting the twins in the ground for weeks as she watched them prank her housemates endlessly. After all, the most important rule of Slytherin was to watch each other's backs, at least outside of their dungeon.

"Well, love?" Thorfinn urged.

"Rune stones," Hermione answered. When Thorfinn raised blond eyebrows, she continued. "Inscribe rune stones with a warming charm. Could be the one we learn in first year, it doesn't matter, so long as it's nice and hot. You can set them in a line in front of wherever you're hiding, making sure to conceal the stones also. When they throw snowballs at you, they'll melt before reaching you."

"Anything we throw will melt, too," Roland pointed out.

"Not if you make several gaps in the line for yourself," Hermione argued. "They may figure out where to aim eventually, but not before you get a good lead. And if they don't see the rune stones, they won't know how you melt all of their snowballs, so they can't recreate it themselves."

"I could marry you, Black!" Thorfinn declared.

Sabine hissed, "She's twelve, Rowle!" but he cheerfully ignored her.

"Rather not," Hermione wrinkled her nose. The idea of romance seemed like precious time wasted wooing hormone-addled idiots.

Thorfinn winked, shaggy blond hair falling into his face. "You'll change your mind, love," he grinned, and then rose to his feet and began forcefully recruiting a sixth year who was known to have the highest marks in runes.

"He's a good catch," Theo murmured under his breath, eyeing Hermione sideways. "He's Sacred Twenty-Eight, and heading for a quidditch career. If he's like his dad, he'll play for six or seven years professionally and then go into the Ministry before taking over the family business."

"Theo?" Hermione questioned pleasantly.

He paled. They all recognized that tone of voice. "Yeah?"

"If you ever bring up Thorfinn Rowle as a potential husband for me ever again, I will flay you, turn that skin into a new set of leather boots, and then watch as your bloody, skinless body wanders around your childhood home in absolute agony."

"Noted," he croaked. He had seen her strip the skin off an apple with a spell, smiling in dark satisfaction. He suspected she could do that to him easily.

"Good," she nodded, looking to the others. Draco and Blaise's eyes were wide as they looked at their work without reading or writing a word. "Dinner is soon, right? I'm going to go rinse. This fire is making me sweat."

"Charming as always, Hermione. I think I'll do the same," Blaise said, standing. He was always quick to shake his fear of her off; he had once said the only woman he would ever truly fear was his mother.

He and Hermione wandered into their respective dorms. She entered her room and checked her wards, pleased that they held. She had spent a week and a half casting every ward she could find on her bed, so she wouldn't be attacked in her sleep. A talented, of-age witch or wizard would be able to break through, but she seriously doubted anyone her age or near enough would be table to untangle the complicated web she had weaved. Her wards weren't pretty, but the hodgepodge would do.

After dinner, she shook the boys off to run a private errand, and then she read quietly in her customary chair for a few hours, unbothered by her housemates as they plotted over the table opposite the room. Thorfinn had winked at her as she passed, and then narrowly avoided Sabine's immediate wrath.

Sleep came quickly, offering her the nightly joy of visiting her sister.

Badb laughed in delight when Hermione recounted her day. "Lovely and vicious as always, Anann."

Hermione snorted. "If I have to even think about idiot boys for a second longer, I'll Avada myself. Can we go over those spells you were showing me, again?"

Badb and Hermione had been spending several nights a week going over what spells the goddess remembered from Morgan le Fay and the other witches and wizards she had encountered over the millennia. It was difficult for her to teach Hermione magic, since she had no need for a focus such as a wand. Or for speaking spells at all, for that matter. Badb envisioned an outcome and her power achieved that outcome. Hermione envied her greatly, but settled for the incredibly powerful wand Badb had made for her previous incarnation.

"Very well," Badb said. "Withdraw your good wand." She refused to acknowledge Hermione's first wand most of the time, believing the wand she had helped create was much more suitable for her sister. While Hermione agreed wholeheartedly, she also needed much more time to master her new wand. It was powerful, but tricky; every spell held a darker edge, becoming more volatile. A simple warming charm liquefied the candle on her nightstand.

Hermione set her mind to the task of piecing a spell from Badb's demonstrations. She had only learned one spell from her sister so far, and it had taken six nights before she even got a hint of success. However, that spell had been something she had never even imagined existing, so she was extremely pleased to have even partially cast it. The spell, _aufereter exspiravit_ , permanently banned poltergeists from the room the caster stood in. Unfortunately, poltergeists could not be destroyed; she dearly wished they could, having had her encounter with Peeves early into the first week of school. But the spell was a close enough second. She had plans to sell the use of the spell to other students; any Peeves-proof room was something to value greatly.

The new spell she was trying to learn was proving even more challenging. She had never had such trouble learning a spell; she found the experience unenjoyably humbling.

"Focus," Badb instructed. "I will not teach a distracted student. I know you are diligent, Anann. I once saw you learn to use twin swords over the course of a single day," she chuckled, sharp teeth flashing in the odd half-light of Avalon. "Of course, a battle goddess learning how to use swords is much different from a little mortal girl learning formless magic."

Hermione lifted her wand, snapping, "I am _not_ little," grumpily. Even though some of her days were trying, Badb had the singular ability to put her in a good mood. For Hermione, being able to handle someone teasing her without imagining their death constituted a good mood.

They spent what felt like hours practicing, with very little progress. She had finally managed to produce a wisp of violet when she woke up. She sighed, staring into the shadowy center of the green canopy over her bed. She had fortified her part of the room, made headway on her research, owled all of the Black business ventures, and had begun cultivating her housemates. Her next task was the one that gave her the most trepidation.

She rose from her bed and showered quickly. She dressed in her nicest set of day wear: a simple, yet finely-made silk dress in a brilliant shade of emerald. Black robes went over the dress, embroidered with the Black sigil. She used her heirloom jewelry to accent the ensemble in silver, adding silver beads to plait her hair away from her face rather than leave it wild as she preferred. Armor firmly in place, she tucked her original wand into a long, narrow pocket within her outer robe and left the Slytherin dorms, boots silent on the stones of the dungeon.

Stopping before an unremarkable door, she raised her fist to knock. The door swept open before her knuckles brushed the surface. Professor Snape glared down at her dourly. "I see you are moderately presentable. Let's go on this foolhardy errand before I regain my senses and sentence you to scrubbing cauldrons all day for daring to bother me."

"Good morning to you as well, Professor," Hermione responded, speaking to his back as he disregarded her greeting and strode past her and down the hall.

"If you want to ambush Rufus Scrimgeour as soon as he gets to the Ministry, you will have to hurry for once in your life. That is no doubt going to be difficult for you, as you seem to have all the athletic ability of a paralyzed flobberworm. Pick up the pace, Miss Black," the professor ordered, black robes flowing up the stairs and into the great hall like an oil spill.

Hermione followed quickly, intent on her task. Rufus Scrimgeour was not going to avoid her any longer.


	21. Chapter 21

**Posting early because I'm procrastinating preparing for finals! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I love nothing more than reading and responding to what ya'll think. Enjoy the update and feel free to share your thoughts some more :)**

To say Rufus Scrimgeour was displeased to be accosted the moment he stepped out of the Ministry floo was an understatement.

The second he saw the Black girl and the supposedly reformed Death Eater, he scowled ferociously. "It's bloody dawn, and you two woke up, left Hogwarts, and came here, just to see me. It would be smart to turn around leave before I get irritated."

"At this point, Mr. Scrimgeour," the girl said sweetly, "I would like nothing more than to irritate you, as my letters haven't seem to have done the trick."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Girl, don't push your luck."

"Astarte Hermione Black has formally requested a meeting with you twenty-eight times," the man, Severus Snape, smoothly interjected. "Once a day, for four weeks. She has not received a single response from either you or your department. It is quite… uncouth, to habitually ignore the heir to both the Black and le Fay houses. I have never taken you for a fool, Rufus."

"You will call me Scrimgeour, Snape," the ex-auror snapped, temper rising. "I won't be casually spoken to like I'm your friend, or even an acquaintance. You were a Death Eater, and that's all you will ever be in my eyes, Albus's word or not. If you are both going to show up here and insist on seeing me, then come on. I will not entertain this farce any longer than I have to."

Hermione could barely contain her fury. How dare he ridicule Professor Snape? She looked up to her professor, admiring his sharp intellect. Listening to the leonine man say Professor Snape was not worthy of his regard heated her blood, stoking the beast Badb had warned her of in her chest. Was this how people treated former Death Eaters, ones such as her professor who had turned themselves around and begun to provide for the society that belittled them? No wonder why Professor Snape was such a sour, embittered man. He spent his free time producing complex potions for St. Mungo's and Madame Pomfrey and successfully educated all of Britain's magical children in potions, despite clearly hating it, only to face people like Scrimgeour the moment he left Hogwarts. She could understand why it had been so hard to convince him to bring her to the Ministry; she had had to barter her free time to prepare ingredients for his classes.

She fumed to herself the entire way to the DMLE level. The elevator ride nearly undid her; the beast clamored and roared so fiercely in such close quarters, she felt sparks zinging off her curls. The way to Scrimgeour's office was so tense, she felt as though any one of them would snap before they reached the door. But they made it. Barely.

Scrimgeour settled himself behind his desk quickly, uncomfortable having a Death Eater and a Black, no matter how young, at his back. "This is about that father of yours, I take it," he began without preamble.

"Oh, so you _did_ read my letters, then. He didn't get a fair trial before the Wizengamot," Hermione responded tartly. She didn't mind skipping the social niceties; she was better at being quick and mean, anyway. "According to 'A Comprehensive History of the Blood Purity War,' when Bartimous Crouch was in charge of this department, he axed the personal rights of the citizens in the interest of winning the war-"

"We won the war. Being 'fair' would have gotten us killed," Scrimgeour growled, interrupting her.

Every moment Hermione spent in the man's presence, she liked him less and less. She found him intolerant and unwilling to change, even when the truth was shoved in his face. If feeling that way made her a hypocrite, she didn't care.

She almost looked to her mentor for help, but he had made it very clear the night before that the most he would do was acquire permission to escort her to the Ministry. "I will have no hand in releasing your… father, from prison," the professor had said, a sneer obvious in every syllable. Hermione didn't know why Professor Snape wouldn't help her release Sirius Black from Azkaban, but she knew better than to ask. The only thing she suspected her professor liked less than first years was personal questions.

"That may be so, Mr. Scrimgeour," Hermione admitted. She couldn't deny that the Ministry's change to more cutthroat tactics had hastened their victory. But, she disagreed with the idea that the Ministry had won because of it. "But we both know the Ministry didn't win the war. A baby did."

The ex-auror screwed up his face in anger, but she interrupted his response quickly. "And, it would have been a simple matter to apprehend suspected Death Eaters for trials after the war ended. If it would have been necessary to imprison them in Azkaban until a trial could occur, so be it. Voldemort was dead by the time you took my father into custody. It would have been easy to give him an honest trial, yet he remains in Azkaban, and I remain uncertain of his guiltiness."

"He was laughing at the scene of the crime," Scrimgeour argued vehemently.

"I've also read reports he was sobbing," Hermione pointed out. "That just goes to show that no one knows the absolute truth, not even you. I'm not asking you to move mountains, Mr. Scrimgeour. Give him a fair trial. You know the channels to obtain permission to use veritaserum. Use it. Learn the absolute, untainted truth. The worst that will happen is that I will be wrong, and the DMLE will look all the stronger for imprisoning him from the get go. On the other hand, if I'm right and he's innocent, the DMLE still looks good, for discovering the truth and freeing an innocent man from Azkaban."

"You underestimate how hard it is to get a man out of Azkaban, even for a trial," Scrimgeour growled. But she knew by the way he had stopped looking at the door longingly that he had committed himself to listening, rather than hoping they would give up and leave.

"You're the head of the DMLE," she complimented. "If anyone can do it, it's you."

He leaned back in his chair and eyed her as if she was a creature he wished could be hunted to extinction. "Flattery won't work on me, girl."

"It's not flattery if it's the truth," she said simply.

Rufus Scrimgeour continued to glare at Hermione Black. Finally, he snapped, "I despise Slytherins. I'll look into it, but I make no guarantees."

"It needs to happen as soon as possible," she argued, emboldened by his agreement. "You could have an innocent man suffering in Azkaban right now, at the mercy of Dementors."

Scrimgeour menacingly braced himself on the edge of his desk, holding her gaze steadily as he thrust his index finger at her. "Do not _dare_ to demand anything of me, Miss _Black_ ," he said through gritted teeth. The emphasis on her name made 'Black' sound like the darkest curse.

Professor Snape cut his eyes at her sideways, a clear warning to back off. She plowed ahead, knowing she could gain ground despite Scrimgeour's growing fury. "I wouldn't dare to presume to order the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement around. If you're right and he's guilty, you look good for insisting on keeping a mass murderer in prison, despite his dear, newly-discovered daughter's hopes. I will personally report to the Prophet that you calmly and succinctly told me your honest beliefs that I would only be disappointed by the outcome of a trial. The Prophet and Britain will venerate you for helping a young girl in her quest for the truth. If I'm right, and Sirius Black is innocent, you still look good for demanding an innocent man be given rightful due process. My father will be released and I will be in your debt, which is a much better place for me to be than as your enemy."

The ex-auror screwed his face into a sneer, eyebrows lowering fiercely and mouth twisting. "A twelve-year-old as an enemy? Learn your place, Miss Black."

"I won't always be twelve," promised Hermione quietly.

He stared at her intently, his scowl not lessening a single bit. The silence was oppressive. Finally, he leaned backward and relaxed slightly. "I'll make sure my assistant sends some important owls today."

She knew that would be the best she would get. Hermione prepared herself to cast down her pride and thank him profusely, but he held up a calloused hand with a scowl. The man had perfected the art of angrily scowling. "Not another word, Black. Get out of my office, both of you. And stop sending me letters. I have enough kindling for my bloody fireplace."

Warm with victory, Hermione didn't even acknowledge his admittance of what he had done with all of her polite, well thought-out letters. "I thank you, Mr. Scrimgeour."

"Get out before I change my mind!" he thundered. They complied hastily, which for Professor Snape meant one last, cool glare before he swept from the room after his charge.

"That went well," Hermione said happily. They made it down the lift and into the atrium before her mentor replied.

"You are impulsive and foolhardy," he insulted as they reclaimed their wands.

Hermione frowned as she tucked her wand into her hidden pocket. She had left the Morrigan's wand concealed in her room, as she didn't know how to get it past Ministry security, and she really didn't want the Ministry to find out she had it at all. She didn't know how Narcissa had gotten their wands so deep into the Ministry without turning them over; she suspected there was a charm on her robes.

"I thought I did well," she answered indignantly, prepared to defend herself.

"You did well enough, for a nine-year-old future Gryffindor," Professor Snape sneered. "You pride yourself on your supposed finesse. Managing your dimwitted housemates is quite different from managing educated and experienced _adults_. No matter how old you act, you are still a _child._ If you do not learn to control your temper and your hubris, someone will come along who will humiliate you so badly you will never desire to show your face again."

Spots of color burned high on Hermione's cheeks. "I handled all the people who came up to me when Narcissa took me on my errands. She said I did well!"

"Oh?" Professor Snape questioned, raising a single brow sardonically. "You depend on Narcissa Malfoy for approval, now? My apologies, Miss Black."

Furious, Hermione stopped following at his side right before the floo that would whisk them back to the headmaster's office. "I won't be spoken to this way!" she declared, embarrassed. She was so angry he had implied she needed Narcissa's approval, her voice shook. She couldn't remember the last time she had lost control of herself over mere words. She couldn't remember the last time mere words had hurt so badly.

Her mentor, the professor she most admired, looked down on her. She knew the glint in his eyes was disappointment, and it made her both angrier and more upset. "Stupid little girl. You alone, out of your entire house, have the most potential. I will not watch you squander your talent by becoming too prideful to see beneath your nose. If you want to be the consummate politician and powerful witch I have no doubt you desire to be, you must stop considering everyone around you an enemy."

"How can I _not_?" she lashed out. "Everyone would have let me die before they found out who I really am."

"No amount of violence or threats will change how people used to think of you," he hissed coldly. "You can only control how people see you from this point onward. Shape your housemates as you wish, but stop trying to force them to fear you. It may work on the younger imbeciles, but anyone older and smarter than a fourth year will find your threats ridiculous. One day you may able to carry out the bloodlust you so obviously feel, but today is not that day. It will not be that day for years more yet. You have the singular chance to become the most powerful witch in Britain, socially, politically, and perhaps also magically. Do not waste the talent I rarely see by being too caught up in your own silly pride to make better decisions."

Done with his thorough upbraiding, he turned around and stalked to the floo. She followed behind, meeker than she had ever been in her life. To be chastised in such a way by the professor she respected the most had knocked her down so many pegs, she felt bruised.

They entered the headmaster's office in silence. For once, Dumbledore was not present, which she found surprising; she would have expected him to be waiting for an immediate update on how their ambush of Scrimgeour had gone. She could only be thankful he was somewhere else, pursuing other schemes. She had no desire to speak to anyone, much less to be interrogated by the nosey Headmaster Dumbledore.

The silence persisted as they made their way back to the dungeons. It was another hour until breakfast, so no one was about. Retrospectively, she considered herself lucky that it was much too early for anyone except Scrimgeour and few maintenance workers to be in the Ministry, as well. She would have felt even more humiliated by her professor's lecture had anyone been present to listen.

She entered her common room, still unable to say a word to her mentor. Sitting in her usual spot, she slouched deep into the green cushioning, not bothering to change out of her finery despite the way the silk bunched awkwardly. She had a lot to think about before she saw her housemates for the day.


	22. Chapter 22

**Sorry for the silence, ya'll. Life interrupted. But the story goes on! Also, if you are anti-Dumbledore bashing, this may be your spot to hop off. I hadn't intended to make this story into that sort of fic, but hey. Things happen. Don't forget to review, and happy reading :)**

"You've been quiet today," Theo noted. He didn't sound worried, just curious.

It was their third class. Potions required a lot of Hermione's attention because no matter how many notes she took to prepare, it wasn't the same as brewing the potion, which she couldn't do on her own to practice before class. She diced a sprig of rosemary and studiously avoided looking at her professor.

"I'm thinking," she told her partner.

Theo nodded his head. "Must be important then," he said, turning the fire down a bit. The potion simmered indigo, just as the textbook said it should. "You haven't answered any questions in class at all. That's unusual."

She considered whether or not to tell him what Professor Snape had told her. On one hand, Theo was a good person to make into an actual friend she could confide in. On the other hand, she had very little desire to reveal the way her professor had thoroughly humiliated her with a few harsh sentences. In the end, she decided not to tell him. She was just too embarrassed to share. She didn't want anyone to know just how much she had built herself up, only to be torn down so completely by the professor everyone knew she admired the most. Being upset wasn't something she was used to; she didn't know how to handle that emotional response. Anger, vengeance, irritation—those were feelings she recognized. But Professor Snape had hurt her, and she had no idea how to deal with it. Never had she thought her admiration for her professor could be twisted into a weakness against him.

She shrugged. "I still knew the answers."

"I don't doubt that," Theo chuckled.

They worked in silence to complete the potion. Just as they finished, a Gryffindor caused a small explosion.

"Mr. Finnegan, clean up your station immediately and then escort yourself to the infirmary. I expected something like this from Mr. Longbottom, but I see I have been remiss not to include you in my tally of terrible students," Professor Snape intoned darkly. When he strode past Hermione and Theo to Seamus Finnegan's disaster, Hermione leaned away from him.

Theo didn't miss Hermione's avoidance. "Not getting along with Snape these days?"

"Everything's fine," she snapped, unable to control herself. She had been on a wire edge since the week before, when she had gone to the Ministry with her professor. The sudden questions did little to calm her.

Theo looked at her with wide eyes. "Okay," he said carefully. "Well, if you decide you're not fine, you can talk to me about it."

"Quiet!" Professor Snape demanded.

Hermione lowered her voice to a whisper. "Why do you care?" She hated herself for asking, but the whirlwind of hurt inside her had not been lessening over the past week, only increasing. The question sounded broken. Weak. There was nothing she hated more than to be weak.

Theo frowned. "Why not? You're right mean, sometimes, but I think of you as a friend."

His words almost caused her to fall over in surprise.

He saw her involuntary twitch and explained. "It's not just because my Head of House tells me to be your friend. You do a lot to help us, even that wanker Zabini. Just because you don't think you have friends doesn't make it true, Hermione."

She inhaled deeply, clutching the table with her fingers. Had she just been fooling herself into thinking she had been holding herself aloof? She had made friends without intending too, even if she couldn't admit it to herself. Merlin, once Theo opened the floodgates, she realized there were a number of people in her house she considered friends, not just allies or carefully cultivated followers. Theo, Blaise, Greg and Vincent, Thorfinn, Roland…. Even Draco to an extent, although she suspected the only thing saving her from nightmares was her nightly visits with Badb. If she has been having nightmares over the attack he had orchestrated, she would definitely not feel even marginally friendly. Draco would never be able to earn her forgiveness, but he had wiggled his way into better graces. She still refused to forgive Pansy and the girls, but she had made friends with the boys without even intending to.

"Sometimes I think Greg fancies you," Theo continued, oblivious to the way Hermione's world had turned upside down. "I pity him."

She sat still and thought very quickly as Theo bottled their successful potion and cleaned their station. She had two options so far as she saw it. One, she could reject the offered friendship and go back to stage one. Two, she could force herself to admit her own faults and follow her professor's advice.

For the first time in her life, Hermione looked at herself critically and realized she was severely lacking.

"I see some of you have managed to produce results that do not make me pine for corporal punishment. Class dismissed. Miss Black, stay behind."

Hermione was very aware that in her current emotional state, the last thing she needed was another reprimand. She could hardly string together complex thoughts.

Theo clapped her shoulder as he moved past to leave. He pretended not to notice her flinch. "See you in Herbology later, yeah?"

"Of course," she murmured.

"Like Hermione would skip a class," Blaise joked as he pushed Theo ahead. "Good luck with Snape, Hermione."

The boys—her friends? —left the classroom. Only herself and Professor Snape remained.

Her professor impatiently stood behind the long table at the front of the room. "Stop hiding in your seat, Miss Black. It is not becoming of you."

Slowly, she gathered her things and carefully cleaned her station, tucking in her stool until it lined up perfectly beneath her work table. She began to straighten Theo's stool to match hers when Professor Snape interrupted.

"Halt your interminable stalling immediately, Miss Black, before I lose my finite patience," he commanded darkly, unamused by her atypical cowed behavior. "I am not going to ridicule you again, if that is what has you so hesitant to look me in the eye. Mr. Longbottom has exhausted my resources for insults at the moment."

Comforted slightly by that admission, Hermione approached the front of the room. She still kept her eyes down, prompting an exasperated exhalation. "Look me in the eye and listen carefully."

She lifted her gaze to Professor Snape's. His eyes were deep black, hooded eyelids giving the impression that he was incredibly bored. "Yes, sir," obeyed Hermione.

He stared at her for a moment, silently thinking. "You resemble your uncle greatly," said her professor finally, to her surprise.

"You mean Regulus Black?" Hermione asked hesitantly. She hadn't expected the conversation to turn in such an unexpected direction, but curiosity held her in its thrall. The only pictures she had seen of her family were the tiny portraits in the magical genealogy book Narcissa had acquired for her. The images were too small to note any similarities between her and the Blacks.

"So far as I am aware, you only have one uncle," Professor Snape answered. "Regulus Black was a very gifted student two years behind me in Slytherin. You could have been his twin, except his eyes were grey."

"Were you two close?" she questioned, sensing something in his succinct description.

Professor Snape nodded once, solemn. "As close as anyone in Slytherin could be, I suppose."

The insight to Professor Snape was unexpected, but not unwelcome. "What happened to him? I haven't been able to find much on him in my research," admitted Hermione. She had been spending an hour or two a week researching what she could on the Black family, driven by a desire to know the people she descended from. There was lots of available information on her family's history, but anything more recent was too sparse to satisfy her itch.

His mouth twisted, but not into its customary sneer. Hermione had never seen such an expression on her professor's face. "He died during the war, as did most people who had something significant to provide the world."

Hermione wanted to know more about why he looked so… sad, but he redirected their conversation, putting a decisive end to anything personal she could have asked next.

"I have noticed that you have been… uncharacteristically quiet during class," Professor Snape intoned slowly.

"I'm better now," she offered, without explaining why she had been quiet or what had changed since class ended ten minutes before. He knew she had been upset over his humiliating account of herself. There was no need to unearth the unpleasant, twisting feelings that had been festering inside her for the past week.

Professor Snape stared down the length of his hooked nose. "I see," he murmured. "And have you thought on our words?"

She should have known he wouldn't let her escape without confronting her complicated web of realizations. After all, he had been the one to force her to learn the joys of self-criticism. He probably knew she had been kept awake at night by what he had said. Other students believe Professor Snape was a sadist; he had certainly confirmed her suspicions.

"Yes, sir," replied Hermione, "I have."

"And?" he drawled, leading her to elaborate with raised brows.

Barely retaining a scowl, she explained further. "I believe you were right, sir."

" _Are_ right," he corrected. He looked darkly amused by her quick glare.

"I have had a very… introspective week," she continued unwillingly. "I'm not good at admitting when I've been wrong, and you told me I had been wrong essentially my entire life."

Professor Snape nodded. "You are as gifted as your uncle was, Miss Black. Do not waste your talents. I would not trust your year to herd Hippogriffs, but I would trust you to at least recognize the creature."

 _What a backhanded compliment,_ thought Hermione to herself. Still, pleasure warmed her cheeks at earning even such weak praise from her most obstinate teacher.

"Unless you wish to remain and begin your bartered task of scrubbing cauldrons, I would suggest you leave and go waste valuable time spent doing something undoubtedly useless," he threatened, ending their discussion.

"Yes, sir," she said, "and thank you, sir."

He only nodded silently to accept her thanks, and she left his classroom without another word.

* * *

"Severus," Albus Dumbledore greeted jovially. "Just the wizard I need to speak to."

Severus Snape remained standing when the Headmaster gestured for him to claim a seat. "Why have you summoned me, Albus?"

Dumbledore offered a candy, which Severus refused, before answering. "I find myself curious as to how the Ministry visit with Miss Black went," he said, taking a seat behind the desk. His office whirred with whimsical instruments, adding silvery background noise to their meeting. "It was a week ago, yet you have not come to chat before now."

"I have been busy," Severus lied. Spying on Hermione Black sat ill with him, so he had been avoiding the Headmaster.

"Of course you have," agreed Dumbledore. "Work does tend to congregate at the end of each term, I remember well from my own days as a professor."

"Perhaps if the first year was not so heavily populated by dunderheads, I would have more time to run your… errands," Severus drawled. "Alas, your pet Potter and his recalcitrant companion keep me occupied. Neville Longbottom is even more of an irritant, amazingly."

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled in a slight smile. "Ah, perhaps, but I know you will teach them all they need to know. Now, tell me of the Ministry."

"It was uneventful," Severus replied as he ensured his mental shields were firmly in place. Albus Dumbledore was a talented Legilimens. "Rufus was… himself. Miss Black acted admirably in pursuing her quest."

"Do you suspect she succeeded?" Dumbledore asked.

"No," Severus answered. "Rufus took great pleasure in evicting us from his office without agreeing to anything Miss Black wanted." Snape could rest easy knowing his lie would never be discovered. Rufus Scrimgeour would never admit to being convinced to go against his own will by a mere slip of a girl, no matter the power of her name.

Tapping his pale wand to a temple in thought, Dumbledore hummed noncommittally. "Rufus has always been a man of conviction," he shared. "He would never allow the release of a Death Eater from Azkaban. Do you predict he may change his mind, Severus?"

Severus had to tread carefully, since he knew Scrimgeour had agreed to Hermione's suggestions. "I am not sure," he began, "but Miss Black was convincing. Over time, he may come to agree with her."

"I do hope she is successful, but I doubt Rufus will bend his will," Dumbledore shared, appearing sad. "I will owl him again and extend my support for her cause. It is vital that we ensure the girl is not drawn into the Dark by families sympathetic to Tom's cause, like the Malfoys. Anyone able to cast Fiendfyre without a wand, especially a mere girl, must be kept within the Light. She holds untapped magical power. With the right training, she could be a great support in the next war, so long as she does not develop a taste for any other dark curses. Fiendfyre is a very, very dark but of magic, but her unfocused command of it comforts my fear that she leans more to the Dark. I believe her summoning of it was an accident, don't you think so, Severus?"

Severus remembered the way Marcus Flint had wheezed in pain and terror, melted flesh sliding from bone. He remembered the way Hermione Black had been unable to withhold a tiny, cruel smile when Dumbledore had formally announced weeks ago that Marcus had died of a sudden, onset case of Dragon Pox. Dumbledore wanted Severus to pretend Hermione wasn't already a witch of darker leanings so he could mold her into the weapon he desired. If no one else knew she had unintentionally summoned Fiendfyre, no one in the Order would protest Dumbledore's plans for her.

And oh, Severus knew the Headmaster likely had many plans starring the young, promising witch.

"In fact," Dumbledore continued, sensing his spy's hesitation, "an examination of the wands confiscated that night revealed the departed Mr. Flint's wand had also produced Fiendfyre, while Miss Black's wand's last use had been to warm her meal at dinner. We can never know the truth of who cast the dark curse, but I would still like to assure myself a young witch with such potential chooses the Light. Perhaps I have grown too sentimental in my old age," the Headmaster self-condescended, "for I cannot help but desire to save the daughter of my old friend, Sirius Black, from following the path so many of her ancestors chose."

Severus knew without a doubt Marcus Flint hadn't cast Fiendfyre, so the implication took him by surprise. The boy had been hotheaded and impulsive; if he had known a curse such as Fiendfyre, he would have bragged to his housemates or threatened other students long before Hermione's blood status prompted him to attack. But Dumbledore had never made an effort to get to know Slytherin students, so it was possible he didn't know Marcus's nature. However, Severus suspected the Headmaster was perfectly aware that Hermione had indeed been the one to summon Fiendfyre, yet he was trying to spin a narrative that left her completely innocent.

"Does Minerva suspect the late Mr. Flint may have been the student to cast the curse?" Severus asked. The other professor had also been on the scene that night. Dumbledore's response would tell Severus if Minerva had also been gently coerced into believing the twisted tale. If the Headmaster chose to conceal the truth from even the core members of the Order, then he would be able to do what he wanted about Hermione without complaint.

"She was at my side when we discovered it," Dumbledore informed, confirming Severus's suspicions.

If Minerva had been in on the subterfuge from the beginning, Severus realized, then that meant Dumbledore's plot to control the young witch had been taking shape for months. Severus felt ill at the thought. He should have been glad to know a burgeoning Dark witch was under Dumbledore's watchful eye. He had seen the carnage dealt by her uncontrolled summoning of Fiendfyre, and he knew that she was making a concerted effort to research curses to teach herself. Such a witch was easily capable of being another Tom Riddle, and Tom hadn't had the wealth or political power during his schooling to do anything of note but build his following.

Severus knew Dumbledore deeply regretted Tom's fall into the Dark. A powerful wizard like him would have been an incredible asset. Hermione had the potential to either be the next great Dark witch, or Dumbledore's greatest weapon. If given the option between the two, Severus knew without a doubt what the girl would choose. And that meant it was already too late to cultivate her for the Light. While the girl didn't believe in the ideology behind Tom's rise to power as Lord Voldemort, she shared the same thirst for knowledge and casual, willing cruelty, added to her growing distrust of the Headmaster.

The potions professor did not share his thoughts with the Order's leader. Although he had no desire to see a Dark witch rise to power after Lord Voldemort, and he knew Dumbledore was the best way to avoid that, he didn't truly think Hermione Black was interested in ruling over magical Britain. She enjoyed having power over others, and she had the wealth and bloodline to become a political powerhouse, but Severus believed her interests were academic. She couldn't learn everything she desired if she had to waste time playing tyrant. Hermione was a witch who only did things she wanted to do; ruling would not suit her.

If Severus told Dumbledore his private beliefs, the Headmaster would not agree. He would act understanding and pleasant, but the potions master knew that if he believed Severus would not follow his orders to the letter, he would then use a different tool to enact whatever plot he had decided upon to gain control of the young witch. Severus wanted to be the only one Dumbledore set to the task of cultivating Hermione, that way he could protect her from Dumbledore's recruitment.

A long time ago, Severus had known another young witch brimming with boundless spirit and talent. She had been solidly Light-minded magically, but possessed a similar vengeful flare and spark of temper that often resulted in impulsively cast spells. He had made his own mistakes with that witch, and so he hadn't been able to protect her when the Order proved inadequate. Never would he forgive the Order for their failure. He would not willingly entrust another young woman to their care. His arms still held the phantom weight of a dead witch.

"Very well," Severus finally said.

Dumbledore smiled, aware the potions professor had agreed to the story he had invented. "Of course, the truth always prevails."

"Of course," Severus echoed.

"I have much to do, so you may leave if you wish, Severus," the Headmaster dismissed.

The potions master inclined his head and swept from the room.

Once alone, Albus Dumbledore looked to an empty corner of his office. "It is safe to come out, now," he said.

The corner shimmered oddly, a section of air becoming visibly displaced as a man appeared.

"Do you now understand my concerns, Rufus?" Dumbledore asked gravely.

The leonine Head of Magical Law Enforcement folded his arms over his chest. "Well, I don't disagree with you. There is some scheme afoot. I told the blasted girl I would think on her idea, which the Death Eater heard quite clearly. For some dark reason of his own, he lied."

Dumbledore nodded and thoughtfully steepled his fingers. "Severus is usually one of my most trustworthy advisors, although I have always made a practice of withholding some information so as to make his life… easier. However, he garnered my suspicion when he avoided coming to give a customary report."

Rufus Scrimgeour furrowed his brows. "You claim he's trustworthy? I have yet to meet a Slytherin I would ever trust."

"The House of Slytherin does attract darkness," Dumbledore admitted, "but I have known many fine witches and wizards to enter that house and avoid temptations. Horace and Andromeda are two that you know."

"Horace Slughorn is a coward and a social climber," Rufus disparaged. "Mrs. Tonks is admirable, however. Her daughter was a Hufflepuff, so the Black blood doesn't seem to have corrupted her."

"I do not believe it has corrupted the young Miss Black either, despite appearances, Rufus," Dumbledore gently chided.

Rufus's scowl turned thunderous. "I would have words with you over that, Albus. How is it that Fiendfyre was used in what is supposed to be a sanctuary for Britain's youth? How is it that no report was given to the Ministry over that girl being brutally attacked? Marcus Flint may have died before justice came for him, but I suspect there are still things you haven't told me. You are not the ruler of some tiny fiefdom. These children are not your subjects. Hogwarts may not answer to the Ministry, but the schoolchildren are under the protection of the government."

"There is no proof of who cast the spell," Dumbledore reminded. "Likely, the perpetrator is already dead. Miss Black is a victim, and I will not have the story of her attack sensationalized. There are people in your department who would buck your purview to sell such a story to the Prophet."

"I am well aware not everyone is as loyal as I would like," the ex-auror snapped. "The fact remains that you purposely hid a crime from the Ministry to further your own ends, no matter what altruistic spin you put on your reasons."

"It was an unfortunate necessity," admitted the Headmaster solemnly. "The girl has enough to deal with as it is. Would you have thrown her to the wolves when the issue has already been resolved by the unfortunate passing of Mr. Flint?"

"You're lucky, Albus," Rufus growled. "There is nothing I want more than to investigate this entire scandal. I know the Black girl won't cooperate, and the Flint boy is dead. The only thing saving you from a full review at my suggestion is the death of a _student_ , Albus. Don't take me for a fool. The moment that boy entered St. Mungo's, I started keeping an eye on him. His rooms may have been private, but my sources say his death wasn't from Dragon Pox. Marcus Flint was covered in unhealed burn scars when he died under mysterious circumstances. Dragon Pox looks nothing like burns."

"If the boy cast the spell—and I believe he did—it is extremely likely he lost control. It is not unknown from the casters of Fiendfyre to succumb to their own curse."

The Head of the DMLE was not a stupid man. He knew Albus Dumbledore was relying on half-truths to evade a deeper investigation. There wasn't enough evidence to support Rufus's suspicions, which meant there was nothing he could do but accuse Albus of hiding the truth. Albus acted as if Hogwarts was solely under his control, which made him treat the Ministry as a foreign entity. He had amassed followers to praise his name in all levels of society, leaving Rufus unable to say one word against the old wizard. Rufus knew he would have to content himself with the crumbs Albus allowed him. He would bide his time until he could launch a full investigation and reveal the schemes he had no doubt the Headmaster had been planning.

"So now you know your Death Eater pet lied to you," Rufus changed the subject, allowing Dumbledore victory for the time being. "Why did you bring me here to witness it?"

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled pleasantly, "so now we get to the crux of the issue."

"I'm not here for your dramatics," Rufus snarled, patience growing thin. "You pulled favors to even get me here once more. I don't bloody care if you're Supreme Warlock or whatever titles you bandy about. I have real work awaiting me at my office while you waste my time, sitting in your tower and controlling the lives of children. Get on with it, Albus."

"Such outbursts are not needed, Rufus. I will tell you why you are here. It is for your cause."

"Spit it out. I am nearly done with listening to you," Scrimgeour snarled, irritation obvious.

Dumbledore stood slowly, aged bones limiting his speed. "First, I must show you something," he told the ex-auror. The Headmaster led Rufus to a cabinet behind the great oak desk. After whispering several spells and moving his wand in an intricate pattern, the cabinet unlocked, revealing a faintly glowing stone basin.

"A pensieve," Rufus noted suspiciously. He wasn't sure if he liked the direction of the conversation.

"Correct," Albus praised, as if Rufus was his student, not a decorated war hero and equal. "This pensieve may be my most prized possession. It holds many memories in its safekeeping."

"What do you intend to show me, Albus?"

The Headmaster lifted the basin onto his desk's surface, clearing cluttered papers with a wandless swipe of his opposite hand. "I will confirm your suspicions," he answered. The old wizard held out a hand for Rufus to take. With some hesitation, the ex-auror accepted.

 _Rubble made the street impossible to navigate, so the two Aurors relied on apparating from each clear space they could find. They followed the shrill screams and baying laughter until they finally came upon the scene._

 _Body parts surrounded the shaking form of a young man. He was splattered in gore so thick his pale skin barely showed. Auror Dawlish couldn't even recognize him until the young man's head tilted forward and he began to chant to himself, the same phrase over and over._

" _It's my fault," Sirius Black cackled, "I did this! They are dead because of me!"_

 _Auror Dawlish exchanged a glance with his partner, Auror Proudfoot. They each looked at the ruined street and the remains of at least a dozen Muggles, splintered by a dark curse into no more than burnt blood and gristle._

" _THEY ARE DEAD! BECAUSE OF ME!" Sirius screamed._

 _The Aurors heard Muggle sirens. They only had moments before more people arrived at the scene of a wizarding crime._

" _We have to take him in," Auror Proudfoot said, confirming what Dawlish hadn't yet said aloud._

 _Auror Dawlish knew the Potters had both been killed hours earlier, leaving their son behind. Dawlish was a part of the Order, and he was deep enough in the secretive group to know they had been betrayed._

 _It looked like they had discovered the source of the betrayal: Sirius Orion Black._

 _Sirius shuddered forcefully. His body curled inwards on itself, forehead pressed to the asphalt. Grimy hands gripped his fistfuls of hair as he shook his head side to side, abrading his skin. "It's my fault," he moaned. "I killed them." His voice was broken with despair._

" _That's all the confession I need," said Auror Proudfoot. Disgust twisted his normally cheerful voice into dark condemnation._

" _Sirius Black," intoned Auror Dawlish, "You are under arrest for the murder of Muggles, the use of magic in front of Muggles against the Statute of Secrecy, aiding and abetting the terrorist movement, and the murder of James and Lily Potter."_

Rufus and Albus were ripped from the short memory at Albus's wand wave. Rufus gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself as the old wizard returned the pensieve to its place.

"I borrowed the memory from the first Aurors to reach the scene," the Headmaster informed. "Auror Dawlish is an old friend of mine. I knew his recollection would be untainted by bias."

"What is your purpose in showing me this, Albus?" Rufus demanded. "You want Black to be freed."

"Upon further reflection, I now believe that may not be the best course of action," Albus revealed. He sighed sadly, his age apparent in every move. "At first, I allowed myself to ignore evidence and trust in the best. I wanted to believe Sirius had been falsely imprisoned by the strict methods Mr. Crouch employed."

Dumbledore gestured for Rufus to sit, smiling slightly when he did so. "It does not hearten me to admit my wrongs, Rufus. I am an old man. I wanted to believe the best of my former student, even though all evidence pointed to a different conclusion. I will not lie to you. I originally supported Miss Black in fostering his release and fair trial."

"It's why you dragged me here the first time," stated the ex-auror. "I told you I wouldn't release a Death Eater, no matter the sob story you spun to manipulate me."

"You have always been a man of conviction," Albus complimented. "I have admired it of you, even if at times I wish you were more open to advice."

"What changed your mind?" Rufus asked. He ignored the compliment; he had no interest in being absorbed into Albus Dumbledore's sticky web of influence. Once he began accepting advice, it turned into favors, which then left Rufus solidly in Albus's circle of influence, trapped by how own actions.

"The girl has the potential to become dangerous," Albus admitted. "I once hoped her father could temper her dark interests, but upon review, I now believe she would be better off under another person's guardianship."

"You just spent an hour trying to convince your pet Death Eater that the girl is no danger," Rufus argued heatedly, frustrated with the circular conversation. "Are you implying now that she is the one who cast Fiendfyre? If she is, I'll take her in, despite your concerns for her. You won't convince me otherwise. I was an Auror. I am Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It is a shame for a young girl to be taken in for dark magic, which I won't deny despite my personal feelings about her. You can't protect her from the law, no matter what you offer me. Don't try to twist me into one of your pawns, Albus."

"I would never do that, Rufus," Albus calmly disagreed. "I do not have pawns to do my bidding. I know likeminded people with moral principle interested in seeing the Light triumph over Dark."

"Pretty words mean nothing to me," Rufus threatened quietly. "What's the truth of her? What are you planning, Albus?"

"It will never be known what occurred that night, despite my fervent wish otherwise. But what I do know for sure is that the girl will become a force to be reckoned with one day. A young witch with the power and potential Miss Black has is a girl to watch closely. Under the Malfoys' tutelage, I fear her soul may be irreparably stained. I had hoped her father would prove a better option, but with the memory I have shown you, it seems I was fatally wrong."

"Unless a crime was committed, none of this involves me," Rufus argued, tired of the ordeal. He had always known Sirius Black was guilty; his knowledge had been confirmed. Sirius Black would not get a fair trial so long as Rufus was in office. "A custody quibble has no place in my department."

"Even you must admit it is important to ensure the child has a good upbringing," Albus appealed. "And I had to show you first hand why Sirius is not an acceptable candidate to raise her. When I owled you, you told me yourself you had begun making inquiries to his release. That is why I had to reveal to you Severus's evasions and Auror Dawlish's memory."

"The girl made a surprisingly convincing argument for Black's trial," Rufus informed. "The memory has proved otherwise and confirmed my own beliefs. Sirius Black will never leave Azkaban. But that still does not explain why you are trying to involve me in the girl's life. I have no interest in Astarte Black."

"I am glad to hear that Sirius will never have the opportunity to twist his daughter to his breed of darkness," Albus said in relief. "The worry had plagued me. As for her upbringing: I am informing you so that, should it come to it, I know I have the support of your department. It does involve one of your own, after all."

Rufus narrowed his eyes as he realized what the old wizard was planning. "You want to give the girl to the Tonks family."

"I have always known you to be intelligent," Albus confirmed. "I believe Andromeda to be the best option in raising the girl correctly. Should you ever be concerned, I believe Auror-in-training Nymphadora Tonks would be able to answer any questions you may have concerning Miss Black."

"If you think I would ever be concerned about the girl, then you know something about her nature that I won't like," Rufus intuited.

"I know only that the Blacks are infamously prone to madness," Albus said gravely. "Andromeda has proven non-afflicted. She would be first to recognize the signs."

Rufus Scrimgeour leaned backward and considered the Hogwarts Headmaster. "I may personally support limiting that girl through whatever pawns you have at your disposal, but I will have no part in a civil dispute. That is my final word on the matter, Albus."

"I am sorry to hear that, Rufus. You could be a great help for making sure the young girl grows up happy and healthy."

The ex-auror rolled his eyes. "Yes, I have no doubt. If all you wanted today was to confirm for me that Death Eaters never change their colors, and try to manipulate me into battling for Astarte Black's guardianship on your behalf, I think I will take my leave. I can't pretend it's been a pleasure, Albus."

"If I have succeeded in keeping a murderer away from an innocent girl, then I believe it was my pleasure to speak to you," smiled the Headmaster politely.

The Head of the DMLE scowled and pointedly refused to politely disengage. He used the floo. Dumbledore watched him go, pleased that he had accomplished nearly all of his goals.

Dumbledore did not truly believe Sirius to be guilty of his accused crimes. Auror Dawlish's memory had been the perfect tool to ensure Scrimgeour went back on his agreement with Miss Black to try and free her father. While Dumbledore knew Sirius had once been a strong proponent of the Light, he did not trust the influence Azkaban could have had on the already imbalanced wizard. A man exposed to such darkness could easily slide off the correct path. And Sirius Black had already been exposed to so much darkness in his short life. There was also the added difficulty of Harry Potter; Sirius would no doubt claim guardianship of the young wizard, as was his right as Godfather. That would place Hermione and Harry in close quarters, which made Dumbledore worry over the effect the young witch would have over the boy. Harry Potter was destined for great things. A Slytherin proven to lean toward the Dark had no place in his life.

If the old wizard wanted to make inroads to securing the young witch for his own plans, he needed her to be watched over by someone he could trust absolutely to instruct onto a path of the Light. It didn't hurt that Dumbledore had always held more sway over the Andromeda and the other Tonks than over Sirius Black. Sirius had always been stubborn and independent, with a worrisome streak of violence. He would not appreciate anyone meddling in such personal affairs as his daughter's upbringing, no matter their good intentions.

And besides—Andromeda Tonks was a great witch, who had raised an admirable daughter. The Tonk's family was stable, a perfect nuclear environment for a young girl. An ex-convict was no man to raise a young girl.

It was sad that to protect the girl from Dark influences, an innocent man would remain in Azkaban. But then, Albus Dumbledore always made decisions for the greater good.


End file.
